


The Islanders and the Philosopher's Stone

by Islanderlass



Series: You may take the boy out of Azkaban, but you'll never take Azkaban out of the boy [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Butterfly Prologue, Azkaban, BAMF Hermione Granger, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Crack Treated Seriously, Dumbledore Bashing, F/M, Gen, Greek and Roman Mythology - Freeform, Harry Potter was Raised by Other(s), Harry Potter was Raised by Sirius Black, Harry saves Sirius Black, In a manner of speaking, M/M, Magical Petunia Dursley, Or maybe he dooms him, This isn't about Petunia or the Dursleys, Vikings, Wizarding Traditions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-06-05 17:40:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15175937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Islanderlass/pseuds/Islanderlass
Summary: What if the Evanses were not Muggles? What if Petunia knew of a place to take Harry?Meanwhile, in a place far from Privet Drive, the Lord Warden of Azkaban lived a peaceful life of snarky guards, interfering politicians, and incarcerated convicts. He should've appreciated the sheer sweet boredom of that existence, but, alas, he wished for excitement. He got it. He only has himself to blame for the ensuing mayhem.





	1. Petunia's Choice

**Author's Note:**

> The genesis of this story is a plot bunny that I have had rolling around in my head for years. Azkaban, like many other entities in the Wizarding world, seems to have a strange lack of oversight. Are Dementors the only guards? Why is the prison seen as so inescapable? Is there visitation? Are there different levels of security for different crimes? What, exactly, are Dementors? Even within prisons, there are communities of people. Maybe on Azkaban, an Island apparently very difficult to get to, there was a village of the families of guards, former convicts, and support staff. But I had no idea what character could take us there and keep it from becoming total crack.
> 
> And then, finally, it dawned on me that Harry could be raised by the Warden, and perhaps he asks his guardian for stories of his parents. The Warden only has access to the notorious convict Black, and so he decides to come up with a scheme to bring Black into his household. The only way to get Black out of the high security wing is to more or less convince everyone, including Sirius, that he wants Black in his bed. The lie eventually becomes the truth, and when Sirius escapes to find Pettigrew, he knows he's betraying loved ones yet again. He's also saner, healthier, and far more inclined to support family, dark wizards, or not.
> 
> So: the rating is M currently because the premise at least involves dubious consent, and after all, this is Azkaban and Sirius Black we're talking about. But Harry won't be all that different, and no one at Hogwarts will probably know who raised him for at least a few years.
> 
> P.S. This will probably end up as total crack anyway. I repeat: Sirius Black.

The Dursleys of Number 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, would say they were completely Normal. Vernon Dursley worked as a senior supervisor at Grunnings; he left the pleasant house every morning in a suit and tie. Petunia kept a tidy, if fussy, house, tended to their beloved only son, spied on the neighbors, and browbeat the delivery men.

Until November 1st of 1981, they had aspirations of social mobility. Vernon dreamed of becoming the CEO of Grunnings, of buying a country estate with cold hard currency, of collecting antique automobiles. Petunia dreamed of hosting gardening parties and candle light suppers, and of having a little girl, who would marry a wealthy man—perhaps even Prince William. Dudley—well, fine, he was only a toddler, but his parents were certain he would be Someone someday. Both senior Dursleys were quite determined that nothing would interfere with this—so determined that they only interacted with their less…respectable…relatives as little as necessary. Oh, they didn’t shun their blood relations, for no Respectable person of the Upper Class did so. It was One’s Duty to extend a hand up to the Less Enlightened. They invited Petunia’s parents around for tea, they set aside a guest room for Marge’s use, so she wouldn’t drive her claptrap car to their house, and even invited Petunia’s eccentric sister and That Man She Married to Dudley’s christening in hopes the Vicar would impress fear on to their immortal souls. (Really, very unfortunately for Petunia’s nerves, the Vicar turned out to be a squib cousin of That Man’s father and was delighted to meet little Jamie’s fiery Muggleborn wife).

Anyway, had that queer night been nothing more than owl sightings and unrestrained glee, and even that…person…who hugged Vernon Dursley on the bus, they would have continued with their denial of all things abnormal. They may have even deigned to speak to the Vicar again, much to that worthy man’s everlasting regret. All things are possible, and surely out there somewhere is a universe in which Albus Dumbledore did not leave their infant nephew on the stoop with the milk bottles. 

This is not that Universe. 

Petunia opened the door to bring in the milk, and screamed at the sight of the toddler, who woke up and realized he was hungry, cold, and wet. Petunia leapt past the baby and darted out to the front gate to see if anyone was there.

“Is there something the matter, Petunia?” Her neighbor called in a puzzled voice from her own doorway. She couldn’t remember Petunia ever coming to the door wearing curlers, let alone outside in pink satin robe. 

“No! No, dear, someone left something unsavory on our stoop and I thought perhaps I would catch the hoodlums,” Petunia clutched her robe to her bony chest, and scurried back to her door. 

“Oh, how horrible, would you like some help cleaning up the mess?” A rather odd reaction to flaming bags of dog poo; the neighbor really had expected more rage, but Petunia looked downright unwell.

“No!” Petunia screeched. She noticed, horrified, that more neighbors were beginning to pop outside of their doors. “No,” she said in a syrupy voice. “Vernon will of course handle it.” She snatched the bundle up and darted inside. Vernon stomped down the stairs and at the look on his wife’s face, took the bundle into the kitchen. Petunia collapsed into a chair, trembling.

“Here, love, let me put the tea on.”

“Vernon,” she said faintly.

“Yes, dear?”

“There’s a letter with it.”

“Well, open it while I fix you a hot drink.”

Petunia opened the letter and read it.

“Vernon, my sister and That Man are dead.”

“I’m sorry?” Vernon dropped the tea cup. From the good set of china. Petunia didn’t even seem to notice. She was staring into space, the letter crumpled in her whitened knuckles.

“Dumbledore…he was the headmaster of the freak school I told you about…well, he says that we have to raise my nephew. Because my sister did some sort of blood protection hocus pocus.”

Silence enveloped the kitchen.

Now, in yet another universe, Dudley woke up and began to scream. Petunia pushed Vernon out of the kitchen and swept up the china bits, and by the time she’s cleaned that up, she decides that it’s only her duty to raise her sister’s boy. And in that universe, Harry Potter grows up in a cupboard, with only spiders as company, believing his parents were worthless layabouts.

This is not that universe either.

The silence is only broken by Petunia, who says, “Vernon, I think I need a glass of sherry.”

“Dear, it’s—it’s 7 in the morning—“

“I know. Vernon. I know. But we will need to take Lily’s child to a place that will take him in. For that to happen, I need a bit of scotch courage.”

________________________________

In other universes, Petunia took a secret to her grave. Harry and Dudley had no way of learning it. Not even Lily knew, and certainly Vernon never found out. Petunia herself had only faint, though happy, memories of the northern island where her father grew up. Mr. and Mrs. Evans had never really meant to settle down in Cokeworth, and they took their daughters on a ferry every summer to visit the Evanses every summer until Lily turned five and nearly died of pneumonia. The next year they went to Spain on doctor’s orders. The next year they had no money to go anywhere. And each year after, much to Mr. Evans’ frustration, something else came up. Then finally, Lily turned 10. 

Lily got her Hogwarts letter. 

Petunia had not.

Lily was so excited about magic. She chattered constantly about the nasty little boy in the park, and a posh school in a castle, and an entirely different land that Petunia could not follow her into. Mrs. Evans, noticing her oldest daughter’s growing depression, suggested that they visit the Island one final time as a family. Even as Petunia’s eyes lit up, and Lily pouted, Mr. Evans said. “No.”

“But—“

“No. Girls, go to your room.” His children ran to their shared bedroom. They’d never heard their father speak in such a tone to their mother, and the adults never talked about the topic again, at least not where their children might hear.

But in this universe, while Mrs. Evans took Lily to Diagon Alley, Mr. Evans took Petunia and drove north to the ferry dock one final time. They sat on the end of the pier and looked out at the Island in the distance.

“Are we going there?” Petunia asked.

“We can’t, Petunia. If someone sees us here, we’re just two Muggles lost, looking out into the watery horizon. If someone sees us board the ferry, then we are no longer Muggles.”

“But Daddy, if we aren’t Muggles, we can follow Lily.”

“No. It could hurt your sister. We don’t need the Island. Your sister may need Hogwarts.”

“Then…why are we here?”

“Because I want you to remember this. Someday Lily may be gone and I may be dead. Someday you may not want to send a child to Hogwarts. I made the choice to make your sister happy, but I want you to have a choice to make yourself happy.”

“I don’t understand.”

Mr. Evans took one of Lily’s strange silver coins from his pocket and placed it in his daughter’s hand. “You don’t need to understand,” he said quietly. “You just need to know that one sickle gets you on that ferry. Your name gets you past the dock. And the word Sanctuary gives you and yours a home. The Island will always take an Evans in.”

They sat there quietly, father and daughter motionless staring out at the distant rock.

“Yes,” Mr. Evans said, almost too quietly for the girl to hear. “Azkaban always takes us in.” 

Petunia went home and hid the funny coin. She couldn’t go to Hogwarts, and she wouldn’t endanger her sister, so she saw only one path before her—an uphill climb out of Cokeworth. And she buried the knowledge of the Island far back into her brain until a squalling baby showed up on her porch. For the first time in a long time, Petunia saw a branch in the path. She remembered her father’s words, and she chose the choice that would make her happy.


	2. Ignorance is bliss, right up until it's not.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet most of our protagonists.

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley stayed home that day, curtains closed and lights off, and drank quite a lot of sherry. Well, Petunia drank. Vernon sat on the floor and attempted to keep Dudley from throwing toys at Harry. He was genuinely worried about Petunia who seemed to be lost in her memories. The next day, though, she seemed back to normal. She packed overnight bags and herded her family to the car. She strapped Dudley into his car seat, wedged Harry’s bassinet on the floor at Petunia’s feet and set off on their adventure. Petunia, as usual, could not quite resist playing navigator. 

“Left at the light, dear.”

“Yes, Pet.”

“No, not that light, the main intersection.”

“Dear. That’s not for three more kilometers.”

“Well, do you want to miss it, Vernon?”

“No, Pet.”

“I am simply attempting to be helpful, dear.”

“Yes, Pet.”

“WATCH OUT FOR THE PENSIONER!”

Vernon slammed his foot on the brake pedal and the car skidded to a halt. “Where? Where?”

“Over there, in that tasteless green tracksuit.”

Vernon took a deep breath and squeezed the wheel, picturing his wife’s neck in its place. “You mean the one on the walking path? On the other side of the fence?”

“Yes, dear, do you see any other batty old ladies walking a cat?”

(This was, unknown to the Dursleys, the squib Arabella Figg, a new neighbor. Petunia might have been a bit less worried about her welfare over had she been aware that the woman was there at the gentle suggestion of Albus Dumbledore.)

“No, dear. Now, where is this place we’re going?”

“Oh, it’s up in Scotland.”

“The highway is the other direction, Pet.”

“We need to go to the Bank, first. Didn’t I tell you?”

“No, Pet.”

And so it continued on, to their local branch, where Petunia withdrew a queer coin and letter from a safe deposit box that her husband had not even known existed, and north, north, and further north. Vernon didn’t much like driving, nor Scotland, a place he regarded with the deep suspicion of a Proper English Man. He did console himself with the idea that surely Petunia wouldn’t mind if he stopped in a pub for a dram of Scottish whiskey. That’s the one thing the Scots did right, he thought. Yes. Perhaps multiple drams of the most expensive whiskey on the menu.

________________________________________________

A long ways off, another Vernon was having an only slightly better day. Vernon Warden, the 16th Lord Warden of Azkaban, had piles and piles of paperwork piled on his desk. The stacks represented the various Death Eaters that had been rounded up since their leader’s miraculous (and puzzling) defeat. He needed to sort them, sign off on them, and make sure the Ministry compensated them for every last incoming convict. Luckily only a few would become permanent inhabitants of the fortress prison; most would face trial and leave his care relatively quick.

Actually, that probably meant even more paperwork. Damn it. He sighed heavily and slumped in his chair. His study was a relatively peaceful place with its shabby leather furniture, burnished wood bookshelves, and large, elaborately carved fireplace. It was his favorite spot in the large, drafty stone manor. The only fly in the ointment was the predator lurking behind his mother’s favorite vase, near the rafters. Well, the menace would soon come out. He twirled his wand and considered his domain.

Many things are said about Azkaban. Surely every young wizard or witch has heard gruesome stories of the notorious island. Not all, it must be said, are true. The island is home to the Warden Holding; it consists of the Warden residence, the Old Fortress which serves as a prison by order of the Ministry, and a village of several hundred Magical families. It is in fact larger than its more famous sister Hogsmeade, although only in population. The High Street only hosts businesses that can be supported by the residents, or mail order, as outsiders need both a permit from the Ministry and an interview with the Guards to go beyond the Prison Ferry Landing. Still, many mainlanders would be surprised to learn that there is a school, a wand maker, an Owl Post office, a potions shop, three bookshops, and no fewer than five pubs. Many were descendants of convicts, and many more were descendants of folks who came to the island for jobs, spouses, or sanctuary. The Islanders were an independent and proud lot who were loyal to their Lord first, their families second, and their neighbors third. The Ministry, Gringott’s and the Dementors competed for distant fourth place (if one entirely disregarded the existence of beer, a decent curry, or chocolate).

Oh, it’s true that the Dementors, those foul fiends, dwell there. It’s true that the Ministry sends the most dangerous of criminals there. It is also true, at least to the majority of pureblood wizards, that to be condemned to Azkaban is a damning, and usually irreversible punishment. Few such wizards leave the island legally, with all faculties intact—and even fewer leave illegally. That is to say, in quite a different universe, the one where Harry Potter grew up in the Cupboard Under The Stairs, Sirius Black did not accomplish the impossible when he escaped from Azkaban, merely the improbable. The Island is far enough north that it is often foggy and chilly even in the summer. The surrounding sea, even when calm, hides treacherous currents, deceptive sand berms, and jagged rock. There is no cover to speak of as the rocky soil is poor enough that the areas with vegetation are cultivated diligently; the gardens and lawns of Azkaban would, in fact, have met the approval of the most exacting garden club. The residents of the island refer to escape attempts as suicide, and, well, it must be admitted that there have been more than a few of those. Under the reviled 13th Lord Warden, the Guards had even been discretely encouraged to be careless with their keys. The convict would think himself lucky, be allowed to sneak out of the fortress, and then be hunted to exhaustion or death by the Lord Warden’s prized Grims. That Warden had been of the opinion that a good funeral livened up the place, and if the convict survived, so did a rousing execution. 

The 16th Lord Warden was not, quite fortunately, his Great-Grandfather. He was no fan of dogs, nor hunting anything for sport. His towering form was impressive, his amethyst eyes were fierce, and his wild blond hair rather gave the impression of an Eldritch presence. His thick beard was grown only to hide the dimple in his chin. He had a reputation, even on the Mainland, of being soft spoken and scrupulously fair. Children and cats were universally attracted to him, and his vassals conspired near constantly to find him a worthy wife. He’d tried to discourage them from doing so, but that was an uphill battle given that as of yet, he had no heir and successor. He was only thirty-eight, and wizards lived a long time, it was true, but the Islanders needed a leader and protector. Also, he had to admit, no one really lived in fear of him.

Indeed, only one entity could rouse him to rage and dire threats. She Who Must Not Be Named emerged from her hiding spot and dive bombed the paperwork.

“Listen, you fucking parrot, if you shred one more piece of paper, just one more...“

The colorful bird cackled madly and snatched another sheet from his desk as he flailed at it. His Head Guard slouched in one worn leather armchair in front of the fireplace, reading the Prophet and making no move to aid him. 

Vernon said, “Why don’t you do something useful?”

Florence MacDougal raised one eyebrow—the one above her eyepatch and not her actual eye—and smiled sweetly at his boss. “I am. I am keeping you abreast of the news of our world, sir.”

“I meant with the bird!”

Florence dropped her paper and began to smooth her nails with a file. The nails were silver today, Vernon noticed. Did that mean something? The slender redhead’s nail color changed according to her moods, and he frequently used that as his early warning system. Florence was five years his senior and of a mercurial temperament.

Florence looked up at the bird and called, “Do you require anything, my Queen?”

“Biscuits, bitch,” the parrot shrieked. 

“You’re rewarding it for shredding my paperwork?!”

“It would not shred your paperwork if you actually did what you were supposed to, and filed it.”

A knock on the door saved him from further critique.

“Yes?” 

“Quartermaster and nephew, sir.”

“Come in!”

Jamie McKinnon, a broad, black haired man who was going a bit gray at his temples, strode in, followed by Grindan McKinnon, Vernon’s closest friend. The two men stood at attention in front of him, eyes focused somewhere beyond his ears. Not good. Jamie had nearly brought him up alongside Grindan and neither man bothered often with formalities. But today, they wore their grey cloaks according to regimental rules, the Azkaban seal clasp center and prominent over their chest, and held their halberds upright at their sides.

“Gentleman.”

“Sir.”

“Vern.”

“Danny, what did I say right before we came in here?”

“I do beg you pardon, Uncle. Sir!” He saluted. “You look hale and hearty, and above all like the sort of just lord who believes firmly in their minions’ mental health.”

Oh, Merlin.

Jamie continued to glower at the wall. 

For once, Florence didn’t tweak Jamie. She tilted her head, looking thoughtful and then stood to stand at attention next to Grindan. This was worse then he thought, then.

“What are we talking about here?” 

“Sir.” Jamie said woodenly. “I am requesting that my nephew and I are immediately released on liberty.”

“And what has that got to do with your mental health?”

Grindan said, “Oh, you know. Yearly sightings of bikini clad French women. Very restorative.”

“I do not appreciate your attitude, nephew.”

“I do not appreciate your request, Quartermaster McKinnon. We are under siege as we speak. The twelve o’clock boat is nearly filled to capacity.”

“The twelve o’clock boat is the reason I need to leave, sir.”

“Oh?”

Florence seemed to be trying give him some sort of signal. She was pointing at the paper. Grindan was shaking his head minutely.

“Yaxley is aboard, sir.” Jamie spat the name like it was an curse.

“Just one more Death Eater, Quartermaster. He’ll be through the justice system and out on the streets in no time.”

Jamie went red, then purple, then white with rage. Grindan paled. Florence folded her arms and said “Sir, as I was about to report, Yaxley confessed last evening to the rape and murder of Marlene McKinnon.”

Jamie’s daughter. Oh, Merlin. His only child. She’d vanished a few months back, her husband and sons found dead in their house, only to be found in a ditch not far from a known Death Eater revel site.

“I cannot stay and see him, Vern. Son, I cannot do that. Do not ask that of me, I beg of you.”

Vernon did not know what to say. He couldn’t put the man on liberty. The Island was not short staffed for ordinary operations, but this influx of inmates, and the subsequent chaos, was not ordinary. 

He was saved from responding when the dolphin Patronus of the Guard stationed at the Ferry Terminal jumped through the eastern windows. “Uh, sir,” Guard Roberts sounded more uncertain than usual, “I need you and an assistant to take the next boat to the terminal immediately.” A pause. Was that a baby crying in the background? “Um, sir, it’s not dangerous, I think, mostly odd. But urgent, please, My Lord.”

The four looked at each other.

“Quartermaster, Florence will take your spot to check in the 12 o’clock inmates, if you care to join me to investigate.”

Jamie sighed with relief. “Yes, sir.”

Grindan gave Vernon a crooked smile. He was more lanky than his uncle, tanned and brown haired. “Mind if I tag along, Vern?”

“You should probably come and calm Roberts down.” 

"I'm sure he's fine."


	3. Spoiler: Guard Roberts is not fine.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry comes home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what happens when I have insomnia. 
> 
> This is my first multi-chapter fanfic, BTW, and really I'm just going to write as I go along. Let me know if you have strong feeling for or against the longer descriptive paragraphs. I want to do some world building, but I don't want your eyes to glaze over and I know I tend to be less than succinct.

Guard Marty Roberts was not fine. He was not at all fine, and he wasn’t sure he’d ever be fine again. First that madman Black had come through, and snapped his teeth at him. More animal than man, that one. Then Mad Eyed Moody had hexed Black’s knees backwards, which really had not made the Ferry Guards’ escort job easier. Then they brought in Yaxley, who smiled at him and asked if he had a pretty girl on the island. He should never had peeked at the McKinnon file. Poor little Marlene. Then Minister Bagnold’s undersecretary, Fudge, had pontificated to him about the importance of looking put together. He’d been on duty for 14 hours running, and that fop looked fresh as a daisy and well fed.

And now, finally, just as the noon ferry was about to unload and head back to him, some crazy bint had come up and tried to buy a one way fare for a toddler. Not her family. Just one toddler. And there was something odd about the fellow with her—he kept asking his wife “what ferry? To where?”

It didn’t occur to Roberts that the corpulent beady eyed man was a Muggle. He could only blame that later on the fact he was distracted by the bint’s strident neighing and craggy horse like features to match.

He sent a Patronus to his Lord, and the bint had started screaming about how dare he do such a thing in front of his Social Betters. Both toddlers were crying now, and the man just gaped like he’d seen the ghost of Merlin himself. Three hours with this lot, grand.

Azkaban is somewhere in far north of Scotland. Muggles call the islands in the vicinity The Orkneys, and Wizards, when they think of it, call it the Northern Isles. Wizards, though, try to not think of it. They’re not quite right up there, it’s said. Too much Viking blood, it’s said. Not that the Picts were preferable. More pagans than anywhere else in the British Isles these days, it’s said. Azkaban’s reputation is not helped at all by its legal status. The Warden family built their Hold on Azkaban, and proceeded to cheerfully murder, marry, or adopt all intruders until 13th century when a series of treaties with the Crown resulted in autonomy for the Island, on the condition they house magical criminals and serve as a treasury holding, guarded by the Dementors that the Crown had secured from Alexandria. The treasury had long fell out of use due to the Goblin Rebellions, but the Dementors had not been found alternative digs. Today Azkaban rents its Dementors out to the British Ministry for exorbitant rates, and loans the Dementors to the Goblin Nation free of charge. The Quartermaster will cite various treaties if a Ministry official should be foolish enough to demand an explanation, but really, the Quartermaster just liked the Goblins and had a running bet with the current Curse-breaking Director over who could make the most Ministry Wizards piss themselves. (Broken Fang, that crafty old bastard, was winning 7-5.) 

As a result of all this, unbeknownst to most “respectable” Wizards, the Ministry had very little say in how the Prison was ran. They arrested and convicted the prisoners, decided on how long they’d be on the Island, and then sent the prisoners (with their copious amount of paperwork) to the ferry terminal. The ferry terminal clerk examined and stamped the writs of incarceration, and handed the prisoners over to the Guards on duty on the Ferry. The Warden and his Guards determined very nearly everything else. The Warden had the power to order executions as well as pardons. Wizarding Britain would kick up a fuss about the executions, and refused to honor the pardons, but the people in question were rarely interested in leaving the island. Just as one had to commit a serious crime against an islander to be executed, one also had perform a great service for the Warden or have extraordinary circumstances to be pardoned. Often when prisoners had served out their term, they ended up in halfway housing in the village, and no few former convicts stayed on to marry an Islander lass or lad. It is said that every pureblood family has a crooked twig on Azkaban. Wizarding Britain was not kind to its ex-convicts, but the Island treated them as people, at least. Other people came to the island by way of claiming sanctuary. The island would not extradite asylum seekers because the Ministry refused to extradite people who had in some way harmed an Islander. As twentieth century laws against dark creatures strangled Magical Britain, Azkaban gained a reputation for giving asylum to half breeds.

Guards were occasionally injected into the fabric of Island life by way of recruitment as well. To gain citizenship, one only had to spend ten years as a Guard. No, wait, that makes it sound like an easy feat! It wasn’t. Marty Roberts was proof of that. He’d come with excellent recommendations from the Auror Academy. He’d proved to be a bit too credulous for most Islanders, and prone to freezing at the sight of a Dementor. He was a decent dueler, but frankly left a lot to be desired when it came to wielding his halberd, the traditional weapon of the Guards. He was less than two years into his stint and the Quartermaster was running out of places to stick him. So as one can imagine, Marty had to be a good deal shaken to call for help—and the three guards that disembarked the boat at six o’clock were not in the most receptive moods.

However, Marty had just spent the last three hours being browbeat by Petunia Dursley, and even the stormy look on the Quartermaster’s face was a welcome sight.

The Quartermaster stomped over to the the Clerk’s shack and said “Shut your gob, wench.” Petunia was shocked enough to actually do so. Even the babies fell silent.

The Quartermaster looked at Marty. “What seems to be the issue, Guard Roberts?”

“This lady wants to buy a one way ticket for her baby.”

The Muggle man swelled up like a Bullfrog and said “Not her baby. That baby,” He pointed to the basket at his feet.

“Right. Well, still a baby. She keeps insisting her father said you take Evans in; I don’t know what an Evans is, sir.”

Petunia opened her mouth to start screeching again and the Quartermaster sent her such an ugly look she thought better of it. 

He said, “The Evanses are an old Islander family—or were, at least. The last one I know of died a few years back. They were gardeners, known for their green thumb, Guard Roberts.”

The Muggle man blustered “You mean they’re all gone? Petunia, we came all this way and still can’t unload the freak?”

“I beg you pardon,” said the Quartermaster. “What did you just call that child?”

Grindan said, “Now, Uncle, calm down. There’s no doubt a perfectly reasonable explanation here.” He paused. “We’re waiting, Madam.”

“Well,” Petunia said, smoothing her hair. The young man was quite good looking and not nearly so terrifying as his companions. “My father was an Evans. He left me a letter in his will in case one of his descendants needed sanctuary.” She offered the letter to the young guard. He took it, unblinkingly, and handed to the man who had so rudely silenced her. 

“And then yesterday, someone left my infant nephew in a basket on our stoop with not so much as verbal explanation that my sister had been brutally murdered.”

“You must forgive me for saying so, but that sounds so incredible. Who leaves a baby on a stoop in November?” Grindan smiled disarmingly at her.

“Some nob named Albus Dumbledore,” snarled Vernon Dursley. He took the second letter and thrust it at the freak. He didn’t much care for how Pet was staring at the bastard.

The three guards looked as astonished as Marty felt. Albus Dumbledore? The greatest wizard of the age? Surely not! (Marty was only one thinking this. The other three guards had had their own run ins with Albus bloody Dumbledore.)

Grindan flipped open the letter from Dumbledore and skimmed it. He schooled his face blank and handed the letter off to his uncle, who read it, and then said “Vernon, you’d best read the unopened one, and then I’ll show you this after.”

“I’ve already read it!” Howled Vernon Dursley.

“Pardon me, did I address you? Is your name Vernon?”

“Yes!”

The Viking finally spoke. “Mm. How fascinating. Rarely do I meet another with such an august name. Vernon Warden,” He offered his hand to Vernon Dursley, who shook it politely. “Vernon Dursley. Are you the one in charge here?”

“Indeed.”

“I am willing to negotiate to your favor if you take the boy off our hands.”

The Quartermaster glowered. 

“Jamie, let it go,” Vernon Warden said softly. He held his hand out for the letters and began to read.

Other accounts have of course reproduced Dumbledore’s letter, so I will not bother to do so here. I will, however, include the contents of the letter Mr. Evans left in his will, as only those with access to the Lord Warden’s papers can access it. It reads as follows:

Dear Lord Warden of Azkaban,  
I am, regardless of my choice of domicile, a loyal sworn vassal of yours. My family has toiled in your gardens for eight generations; we have fed your people and shed blood for your principles in that time. The woman who carries this letter is either fleeing for her life or incapable of raising the magical offspring in her arms. If the former, I pray that you will offer her your protection. If the latter, know and curse my name for failing to raise my daughters as people worthy of the name Evans. But please, no matter how you view me, take in the child. Give him or her your name, for mine is no longer worthy to be spoken in your presence. Enclosed are legal adoption papers.

Sincerely,  
Yarrow Evans

He read the letter from Albus Dumbledore next, and rubbed his temples. Yarrow Evans had been his first cousin. Young Harry Potter was his family, and the child needed blood protection. But there were few good reasons Dumbledore would have chosen apparent Muggles. And all of the ones he could think of reflected very poorly on the old magician. Dumbledore would not be happy about the change in guardianship. The Ministry would leave them alone until Dumbledore came calling, because generally, the Ministry cared little about where children ended up. He did not deceive himself in thinking that they would not aid and abet Dumbledore. He would need to take an active interest in the Mainlander politics and Hogwarts prior to sending the boy to school

There was never any real choice in the matter, though. Azkaban would always take Evanses in. Perhaps, he mused, he could keep Albus Dumbledore at bay even until Harry’s majority if he was sneaky. He eyed Vernon Dursley speculatively. Grindan felt a thrill of anticipation; his best friend was about to veer off the path into the land of mischief. 

The Quartermaster said a quick prayer to the gods, pleading for patience.

Mr. Dursley felt a quick thrill of a business negotiation. He could tell the other chap would be fun to haggle with.

At the end of it all, Warden walked away with an infant, and all of the elder Dursley’s clothing, barring their skivvies. Dursley walked away with an itchy gray tunic and breeches, as well as a case of the best single malt whisky a man could own. In fact, in this universe, Dursley did become the CEO of Grunnings’ larger rival company in Australia. Part was due to the Viking chap warning him that he should take his family and move far out of Dumbledore’s reach. Part was due to the fact that Vernon gained a reputation for being a confident negotiator and for sealing those deals with a glass of very fine whisky.

Petunia walked away, humiliated, in her pink satin night gown. She was all too glad to leave Privet Drive, and rather astonishingly, she did become a well respected philanthropist in Australia. Perhaps she learned some manners from this experience—or perhaps Australians are just less genteel than the British.

Marty Roberts became a Senior Guard after all. He found Dementors quite soothing after Petunia Dursley. Very quiet. He raised children on the island, but I’ll not tell you with whom quite yet. 

As for Harry Potter, well, he got his first look at the Island as his new guardian held him, standing at the bow of the Ferry. "Welcome home, Harry Potter," said the Quartermaster. "Welcome home, my son," rebutted Lord Warden. The Quartermaster squeezed Vernon's shoulder, and later that night, lead a toast in the pub. Mere days after Mainlanders toasted Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, the Islanders toasted to the gone but not forgotten Clan Evans.


	4. Yule 1981: The Cautionary Tale of Severus Snape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Yule but that only means the empty places at the table stand out more. No one feels like celebrating. The last Death Eater interview of the year reminds them what the season is all about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think canon Snape is a nasty, unhappy man. He's inexplicably popular in fandom, and even though I actually do enjoy Snape centric stories, I've decided to portray him as canon in this story.
> 
> Also, it occurred to me that I'd misnamed the story. It's more like the "The Islanders and the very extended prologue to The Philosopher's Stone." It may take a while to get there.

Yule was supposed to be a time of joy and celebration, of friends and family. Yet Harry’s first Christmas on the Island was a time of darkness and silence. Oh, The Lord Warden’s servants put up the evergreen boughs and the fairy lights. The cook planned a fine spread. Vernon bought Harry a stuffed dragon and wrapped it in silver paper. He was about to put it under the tree, when he realized the paper looked gray, like a dementor’s robe, rather than the eye-catching sparkle he had intended. Then he realized that he didn’t even know if Harry liked dragons. Grindan liked dragons. Grindan once had a dragon just like the one in Vernon’s hand, although that one had puffed blue smoke, not green. Grindan, who had been working nonstop with Florence in the prison, was too exhausted to do much more than sleep in his off time. When he wasn’t working to process the last of the Death Eaters, he was terrified of shutting his eyes. He’d confided in Florence that he had nightmares of waking up to find Jamie McKinnon had finally managed to drink himself to death. 

The Quartermaster had sunk into a deeper and deeper fugue as the holidays had approached. Last year, he had played father Christmas for his little grandsons. Last year, he’d played his fiddle while his son-in-law spun a laughing Marlene around Vernon’s library. Last year, he’d argued that even though there was a war on, even though they all feared for their lives, the Island children needed to know there was hope. He’d flatly refused to cancel the annual McKinnon Yule bonfire, and he went from door to door until he’d convinced every man, woman, and child to come and gather in the yard of his cottage.

This year, Marlene was dead. This year, he’d light no fire. This year, he’d hurled his fiddle at Vernon when the lad had poured out every bottle of liquor in his cottage. He’d tried to follow a shaken Vernon out into the snow, and apologize, but Florence had hauled him back indoors, “You can’t take away that memory any more than you can put your fiddle back together,” she told him. “Personally, I’m all for letting you destroy yourself, but I won’t let you drag us all under with you. You’ve a choice to make, Jamie McKinnon. What would Marlene have you choose?”

He knew this. Marlene would tell him to fight. After all, that’s what they quarreled over right before she departed last year. He’d told her stay—stay for Imbolc, stay until Beltane, please stay until the war was over. She replied that she couldn’t let the Order of the Phoenix down. She couldn’t let Dumbledore down. He hated Dumbledore. What right had Dumbledore had to turn his beautiful bairn into cannon fodder? He drank not to die, or to forget, but to drown the voice in the back of his head that whispered it wasn’t Dumbledore’s fault. After all, hadn’t he been the one to raise his little girl to be brave, and selfless, and loyal? 

He might not be able to make things right with Vernon. He could barely talk to his own nephew. But he could take a shower, put on his uniform, and do his job. When he showed up at the Prison office, Florence gave him a folder and said, “You can sit in on our last evaluation of the year.” As he followed Florence, Grindan, and the Lord Warden to the interrogation theater, he flipped open the file to find a picture of a young man with a hooked nose and sullen expression. Severus Snape, he noted, was a prisoner of special interest.

A PSI had skills that could serve Azkaban. Not every inmate was interviewed upon arriving, but PSIs were screened for potential service. If they were found to be cooperative, they might end up serving their time in a secured wing, with additional comforts, or even in a cottage in the village. These were the people who most often ended up pardoned or in halfway housing, for they weren’t only chosen because they had skills. They were often chosen because they had no where else to turn, and so with a little finesse, their loyalty might be up for grabs. Severus Snape was a half blood, with a dead mum and estranged Muggle father. He was young, and he had joined the Death Eaters because they had wanted him. Azkaban always needed skilled potioneers, and Florence had high hopes that Snape would work out. 

When Jamie McKinnon entered the chamber and saw the look in the prisoner’s eyes, the Quartermaster knew the man was a lost cause. He’d been the Quartermaster under Vernon’s father too; he’d conducted thousands of these interviews. You could fix a broken man, you could bribe a greedy man, and you could soothe a frightened man. But a man obsessed couldn’t be reasoned with, and they couldn’t be trusted. 

“It is the 23rd of December, 1981, Interview with Convict Severus Snape, Alleged Death Eater.” Grindan said for the benefit of the Dictoquill.

“Has the prisoner been told his rights?” Florence leaned forward in her chair.

“Yes, Convict Snape has declined the services of a barrister,” said Grindan.

“May I inquire why you have done so, Convict Snape?”

“What difference does it make,” sneered the man. “You lot will do whatever you want to do to me, once the advocate leaves.”

“We just want to chat with you, Convict Snape, and explore some options pertinent to your time with us. A barrister might be of help to clarify any sources of confusion for you.”

“You mean, convince me to take the rap for any loose ends that the Ministry wants wrapped up.”

“This interview is not at the Ministry’s behest. It’s solely for our own records.”

“I’m sure that’s what the Aurors told you to say, bitch.”

“There’s no need to be rude to the lady,” The Lord Warden said mildly.

“Oh, yes, you think yourselves so clever to have a red headed woman to interview me. Did that filth Lupin give you that piece of intel? Well, I’m not fooled. That’s no lady.” The man’s thin mouth curved in a sneer, and he spat suddenly at Florence. She took a handkerchief out of her pocket and wiped the spittle off her implacable face.

“Let it be noted that the prisoner is hostile. Administer Veritaserum,” she said.

Guards Marty Roberts and Len Jordan stepped forward to hold Snape still while the Grindan applied four drops to the man’s tongue. A dazed look came over Snape’s face.

“Your name, convict?”

“Severus Tobias Snape.”

“You stand accused of serving the terrorist known as Lord Voldemort. Did you do so?”

“Yes.”

“Of your own free will?”

“Initially, yes.”

“What crimes did you commit on the Death Eathers’ behalf?”

“No crimes that I directly witnessed.”

“Did you serve as an accessory to crimes you did not witness?”

“I brewed potions at his behest, and told him of a prophecy I witnessed.”

“Did these actions result in the death or harm of others?”

“Yes.”

“Did you contribute in any way, shape, or form, to the riots of Diagon Alley last summer?”

“No.”

“Did you contribute in any way, shape or form, to the murders of Carl Branley, Marlene McKinnon, or the children of Marlene McKinnon and Carl Branley?”

“Yes.”

Jamie swallowed and dug his nails onto his palms.

“How so?”

“Yaxley said he wanted to have a bit of fun with Marlene, and would I brew him some liquid Imperius and a lust potion that could be combined with it.” 

Marty Roberts looked like he was going to lose his lunch. Grindan knocked over his thermos, but didn’t move to retrieve it. 

“Did you feel compelled to do so?”

“Yes, but I would have done it regardless”

“Explain.”

“Yaxley is a cruel monster, and he would’ve forced me anyway. But I wouldn’t risk my life for a stuck up cunt who told me I wasn’t half the man James Potter was.”

“I think Marlene was wrong.”

“You do?” Grindan burst out. 

“Well, I did not know James Potter, but to be half the man he was, you’d have to be some kind of man to qualify at all. Does Convict Snape strike you anything more than a sniveling coward?”

“I am not a coward! I betrayed the Dark Lord!”

“What were your motivations for doing so?”

“I witnessed Sibyll Trelawney give a prophecy to Albus Dumbledore at Hog’s Head. I told the Dark Lord about it. He interpreted it to mean that the Potters were a danger to him and so they were his next target. I went to Dumbledore and begged him to protect Lily.”

“Just Lily? Not her whole family?”

“You sound like the bloody headmaster. No. Potter deserved to rot in hell, and it was his spawn’s fault that Lily was even in danger.”

“I will wish to revisit your hatred for James Potter momentarily, but for now, why do you think it was a toddler’s fault that Lily Evans was in danger?”

“He was prophesied to vanquish the Dark Lord.”

Florence twisted around to give the Lord Warden an inquiring look. He waved for her to continue.

“I think I’ll come back to that. What did Dumbledore say to your request?”

“He chastised me for not caring for Potter and his brat, and said he’d save Lily on two conditions.”

“Which were?”

“That I become his spy and swear an unbreakable vow to protect Lily’s son.”

“Did you do so?”

“Yes.”

“If you’re loyal to Dumbledore, then why, pray tell, are you here?”

“The Wizengamot has much to do in the aftermath. Dumbledore said he’d put a good word in for me when the time came.”

Florence twisted around again, this time to look at Jamie. He shook his head slightly. There was no point in pursuing that line of inquiry; Snape clearly believed in Dumbledore. She rolled her eyes, and then faced Snape once again.

“Please explain why you hated James Potter.”

The resulting explanation really didn’t make Albus Dumbledore or Snape look any better, although it did reveal that Convict Black had been a homicidal maniac even as a teenager. As they locked down the prison and walked towards the village, Marty said, “I don’t understand. Isn’t Headmaster Dumbledore the Head of the Wizengamot? Can’t he influence the order of the cases on the docket?”

Vernon said, “Not just influence. He chooses the order, and sets the schedule.”

“Then…”

“Why does he allow Snape to spend Yule as our guest?” Florence pulled on her rabbit fur lined gloves. With the sun down, the temperature had plummeted. “Because he’s letting Snape cool his heels, that’s why. I’ll bet you he’ll get even more promises out of Snape after this, even though he did not uphold his end of the bargain.”

“That’s—that’s awful.”

“That’s our Supreme Mugwump for ye.” Jamie was thinking about Snape’s age. If Marlene had been such a wonderful woman because of the love and guidance Jamie had raised her with, what sort of people raised Severus Tobias Snape?

“I cannae even bring myself to hate Snape in light of that,” Grindan’s voice shook. 

Vernon said, “He’s so damn pathetic I wanted to offer him something, anything, even though he’d never take it, even after he said that about Marlene. I’m sorry, Jamie.”

“Don’t apologize. You both feel that way because you are good men. I must have done something right. I hope you can forgive me for my actions these last few months. I was so focused on the family I’d lost, I’d lost sight of the family I still have.”

“Don’t be a fool,” said Vernon. “Nothing to forgive.”

“I’d—I’d like to hold your son tonight, Vernon. Watch him open his gifts in the morning, make cookies with all of you tomorrow afternoon. May I?”

“You never needed to ask, Jamie. You’re his grandfather as far as I’m concerned.” Then Vernon paused, chagrined. “I didnae think anyone would come though, so I cancelled the dinner.”

Grindan said, “The feast cancelled! What did you plan to eat then?”

“It didn’t seem important given that it’d just be me and the bairn.”

“Florence and I were coming, Vern!”

“We were! We even bought crackers at Zonkos and a jug of that spiced wine you like. We’d not leave you and Harry alone on Christmas.”

“I’ve the ingredients of venison stew ready,” said Marty. “I could come and make it in your kitchen; Harry need never see me.”

“Why wouldn’t Harry need to see you?”

“Well, I’m not family and I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“You’re an Islander, lad. That makes you family,” Jamie said.

“That’s the first time anyone has called me an Islander.” Marty blinked hard and swallowed the lump in his throat.

Florence said, “Merry Yuletide, my Brother at Arms.”

“Welcome to the family and may the gods have mercy on your soul,” said Grindan cheerfully. “Ye must have really done something awful in a past life to end up as a baby brother of Florence MacDougal.”

And so the five trekked down the path, through the village, towards the Warden residence where a happy toddler awaited. Marty basked in praise heaped upon his venison stew while Harry clutched his dragon to his chest and fell asleep in Jamie’s arms. Harry’s father, aunt, and uncle pulled every single cracker, drank every drop of hot spiced wine, and told happy stories of their missing sister long into the night.


	5. Something wicked this way comes: 1982

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sirius makes his first appearance, and the first year passes.

**Imbolc**

Mrs. Crouch tossed the healer’s letter into the hearth, and cast a fire spell. “Winky,” she called, "when you’re finished beating those rugs, you will clean this fireplace until it shines. It’s a disgrace.”

“Yes, Mistress,” squeaked the tiny elf.

“And then with you’re finished with that, you’ll start the pot roast. Your Master will be home early.” She took her cane and limped into the drawing room. She settled on the couch and wrapped herself in a blanket. She was always cold these days. Barty, she knew, was hoping for good news when he came home today. She couldn’t even bring herself to care that he’d be upset. She’d known she was sick, and she’d be glad to be rid of the stiff necked old fool. But first, she was going to appeal to his sense of duty to his dying wife. She didn’t care about his precious career; in fact, had she not loved her son more than she hated his father, she would not have minded setting the man up to get caught. Ha! Just imagine the look on his self righteous face!

Imbolc was the festival of purification, the first day of spring. It was only fitting that her boy would come forth into the light on this day. She muttered, “Brigid, give me strength,” and sat there in the dying light of a February afternoon.

* * *

 

**Ostara**

Sirius Black heard a commotion coming from down the corridor and shifted from dog to human. The wizards that ran Azkaban didn’t come to visit the convicts in maximum security much. It meant trouble, and Sirius was almost more afraid of the gray cloaked Guards than the Dementors. Dementors had no wands, and no real malice. The Guards had those Halberds, topped with a sharp spike and deadly curved blade; none of them had harmed Sirius yet, but he’s seen one of them bring the end of their Halberd staff down hard on Yaxley’s kneecap. Yaxley, the prick, no doubt deserved it, but Sirius wasn’t under any illusion that the Guards would not do worse to him, if so inclined. He didn’t think they knew of his dog form, and he wanted to keep it that way. A cold, damp place, was Azkaban.

“Get your hands off me, you blood traitor,” screamed a voice. It sounded uncannily like his darling mother’s voice. Sirius hoped that his incarceration at least made it so she wouldn’t show her disgusting mug in public. With his luck, though, she gloated about it to the crones in her Ladies’ League. _Our dear little boy killed thirteen of those filthy animals, not such a disappointment after all,_ he imagined her trilling over tea and scones.

“If only I could, I would, bitch. Ye make my skin crawl.” Marlene’s older cousin came into view. Sirius thought his name might be Danny. He shoved a manacled Bellatrix to the cell right across from Sirius’ door, and locked her inside. Two more guards followed suit with the more subdued Lestrange brothers. Rabastan looked wrung out. Rodolphus looked amused.

“Why, hello, Sirius,” he said. “I quite like what you’ve done with your quarters. So rustic, those rags. And may I say the smell of your piss and shit really completes the picture.”

“Shush,” barked Danny. Or was it Donny? “No chatting amongst the prisoners allowed.” Then he smirked at Sirius, “Wouldn’t want you to get lonely, Convict Black, so I thought you’d enjoy the companionship of family.”

Bellatrix began to laugh madly. “Oh, yes, little Siri must really miss us,” she cackled.

Rodolphus said, “Sir, may I say even the Dark Lord never managed to achieve your level of sadism.”

The guards laughed. “Keep sweet talking us like that, and we’ll tell the kitchen to give you some extra gruel tonight, Convict Lestrange,” said one of them.

Sirius gripped the cell bars. “Don’t leave me with them, Danny,” he begged. “Have a heart.”

“Just like you had a heart when you betrayed the Potters? Just like you had a heart when you sided with the likes of the man that violated and then murdered my only cousin in cold blood?”

“I never did! I’m innocent!” Danny laughed coldly. “Sure. That’s what they all say.”

“I am! I loved Marlie!”

Danny reached through the bars and grabbed his neck with one strong hand. He squeezed. Sirius choked and struggled. “You have no right to call her that!”

One guard said “Let him go, man, or I’ll have to report it.”

“We’ll be late for the Ostara blessing,” said the other.

Grindan released Sirius and and stepped back, taking a deep breath. “Right. Still need to catch a few hares for the offering tonight.”

Sirius slumped to the floor, gasping, as the Guards strode away.

“If it’s any consolation,” cooed Bellatrix, “We believe you’re innocent, dear cousin.”

“Yes, you’d never have the bollocks,” said Rudolphus.

“Shut your damn gob, Lestrange,” rasped Sirius. The Lestranges and Bella howled with laughter until the Dementors glided through. Sirius shifted back into Padfoot and curled up in the far corner of his cell. He was innocent, he reminded himself. Innocent.

* * *

 

**Beltane**

Albus Dumbledore stepped onto the ferry, nodding to the Guard. As the ferry chugged back to the mainland, he looked back at the island. He could see smoke from the fires of Beltane rising. Such simple people, those Islanders, he mused. Rather provincial to cling to the Old Ways that way. He stroked his beard. A shame he'd never been allowed into the village; surely he might have done some good there. Ah, well, one couldn't have a finger in every pie, just the important ones. He'd gotten what he'd come for, at any rate. 

Back on the Island, the Lord Warden joined his Head Guard on the dock. "Well?" he asked.

"It was as we thought," said Florence. She sighed heavily. "He told Convict Snape that he'd vouch for him if Snape came to work as the Potions Master at Hogwarts."

"Good gods above," said Vernon. "That fellow, teaching children!"

"That bassa," said Florence. "Around our Harry. You sure you want to send the lad to Hogwarts?"

"No. I see little choice, though."

Florence slung her arm around his shoulder. "Well, a lot can happen in nine years," she said. "Let's go leave offerings to the _ao si._ Perhaps they'll bedevil Dumbledore a bit for us."

* * *

 

**Midsummer**

Lucius Malfoy basked in the sunshine coming through his cell window. Money may not buy happiness, he thought, but it could buy comfort. The white washed walls and the narrow bed with its quaint quilt and down mattress were hardly suitable for a Malfoy, of course, but his current quarters in minimum security were a far cry from the deprivation of Maximum Security, and best of all, involved no direct contact with the dementors. 

Someone banged on his cell door and he rose from his bed, strolling to small square portal in the door. "Happy Midsummer to you, my good Quartermaster," he said.

Quartermaster McKinnon ground his teeth. Malfoy was a smug, snobby arse, and worst of all, convinced he'd bought his way into this room. In reality, his entry interview had revealed that the blond aristocrat really had been under Imperius when he joined the Dark Lord, and fearful that his own father would go through with his threat to kill Lucius and take Narcissa Malfoy to his bed.The knowledge did not endear Malfoy to Jamie, but it mean he had listened when Mrs. Malfoy petitioned for her husband to be be removed from the Dementor's influence while he served out the remainder of his eighteen month sentence.

"Midsummer greetings to you, as well, Convict Malfoy," he managed to keep his tone civil. "Would ye like a besom for your cell?"

Lucius smiled. "Why, how kind of you to think of me, sir."

"Every prisoner in this wing is offered one," the Quartermaster replied drily. He thumped the butt of his Halberd on the tarnished brass disk embedded in the ground before the door. A slot in the door opened and he shoved the crude broom through.

Lucius began to whisk the besom across the crude floorboards. At least his captors followed the Old Ways, he thought. None of that Christianized claptrap.

* * *

**Lammas**

Guard Roberts clambered up the Lammas pole and grabbed the Seamstress Guild's flag. He tossed it to Grindan and the other man took off, laughing gleefully, as Mistress Weft lifted the horn to her lips, sounding the alarm. Women of all ages poured out of the Will of the Goddess, the women's only pub down the lane, and gave chase. Grindan was tackled into the Apothecary bushes and the flag was yanked out of his hands. The baker's wife laughed and tossed Marty a Lammas loaf. "Better luck next time, you scamp." The women filed back into the pub, and Grindan jogged up. Marty handed him the bread. Grindan tore it in two and handed him back half. "Where to next?"

"Well, if you can't outrun the ladies, I was thinking you should confess your shortcomings to Old Riley," Marty said. He was finally becoming comfortable enough to rib the senior guards. He still didn't quite trust in the newfound comradery and frequently fumbled; he knew he should have just broke the bread himself. But running around with Grindan in the hot summer sun, dressed similar to the other man in breaches and a loose linen shirt, felt like just another of the Islander lads. 

"I know what you're really after, you imp, and I quite agree. A cold pint would hit the spot for sure!" The two men set off for the Nobody Inn. Old Riley, the landlord, had promised them free pints of ale all day if they stole flags on his behalf. The man didn't care if they succeeded; he just enjoyed the added chaos they caused. A fellow Guard met them half way and handed Marty a thick envelope. "Mail for you, lad," he said cheerfully. "Ye boys want to come and help us steal the blacksmith's flag?"

Marty flipped the letter over and his stomach clenched when he recognized the handwriting. "No," he muttered. 

Grindan said, "Maybe later, Theo. The lad and I are off to have a cold one." Theo Tonks slapped them both on the back and continued on his way.

Marty drew his wand and cast a shredding spell at the parchment. Grindan watched the pieces of paper drift to the ground, and asked "You don't need to open it?"

"No."

Grindan waved his own wand, banishing the bits of paper. "Want to talk about it?"

"It's nothing. I'm just not fulfilling family expectations, you know."

"By being a Guard?" Grindan was curious. He knew little about Roberts' family. His uncle thought the younger man might be a bastard son of Auror Roberts, a slimy, unctuous fellow that Florence had once said deserved a good hiding, and then perhaps a skinning. 

"By not having the decency to off myself."

Grindan was taken aback. He had no good response for that. 

"Well," he said with forced cheer. "Let's go find you a lass so you can continue the grand tradition of sullying your bloodline." That startled the lad into laughing, and they continued on their way.

* * *

**Mabon**

Only a few short weeks into the school year, and Snape had managed to mortally offend not only Filius but also Pomona. Minerva pushed the door of her Hogsmeade cottage open, muttering imprecations about Severus Snape's ancestry, looks, and manners. Filius was no surprise; he hadn't liked the snide boy as a student, and he'd often remarked that the fellow was bound to drag little Lily Evans down into the mire with him. Pomona, though, had always thought him to be kind to her plants, which went a long way with the motherly woman. Not quite far enough to save him from her wrath when he made no fewer than nine of her badgers cry on the first day of classes.

"Someone got your fur ruffled?" Elphistone asked, amused. He rose from the couch and went to draw his wife into a hug. Minerva leaned into his solid form for moment and then drew back and stalked into the kitchen to pour herself a dram of whisky. She wanted to stay angry for just a moment longer, and her husband could cajole the devil himself into a better mood. 

"I don't know what Albus was thinking, hiring that- that- revolting man," she hissed. She threw back a slug of whisky and continued, "The other Heads are about ready to feed him to the Giant Squid, and all Albus will do is twinkle at me and say 'It's for the greater good, my dear girl'. I'm no girl of his, that old goat."

Elphinstone asked from the doorway, "Snape?"

"Aye! Albus is being impossible. He had the nerve to ask if quidditch rivalry was the cause of my objection to Snape's appointment as Slytherin's head. Quidditch! Bad enough that the boy is unqualified to teach children; I cannae imagine him comforting a homesick bairn. Albus just doesnae think sometimes!"

Elphingstone bit back his first, instinctive, criticism of Albus Dumbledore. He rather thought the true problem was that the old fellow thought entirely too much. Always scheming, always meddling about in people's lives. Minerva wouldn't take kindly to him pointing that out though. He knew his wife had had second, third, and fourth thoughts about letting Albus leave young Potter with Muggles, but she still genuinely believed that Dumbledore had good intentions. Every time he said something critical of Albus, the woman would accuse Elphinstone of holding Albus' disdain against the Old Ways against him. Elphingstone didn't give a damn about Albus' opinion on his pagan beliefs; he just wished that the old codger wasn't inclined to make Minerva feel guilty about the few festivals she attended with her husband. 

He didn't want to start a fight on Mabon, though, so he took the bottle and glass from Minerva and kissed her until she was smiling. "Let's forget Albus," he said. "Let's take the Green Man a drink of his own, and maybe do a bit of canoodling in the woods." She slapped his chest, blushing, and they took the whisky bottle out to the edge of the Forbidden Forest to pay tribute to the trees.

* * *

 

**Samhain**

Molly Weasley smiled indulgently at her oldest three boys and asked, "Now, which pumpkin do you think your father should carve up this year?"

"That one," Bill pointed at the largest one.

"That's a bit too big, sweetie," Molly said. "Your poor father would be working all night. Just wait until you go to Hogwarts, the Great Hall is all decked out in ones ten times that size."

"Why can't you just use magic, Dad?" asked Charlie.

"Because Fionn Mac Cumhall used his very own hands to slay the fire fairy with a spear," Arthur ruffled his second son's mop of red hair. "So on Samhain, we use our own hands to carve into the jack o'lantern so that the fire knows to only burn within."

"Arthur!" snapped Molly. "What did I say about filling our babies' heads with that pagan nonsense?"

"I'm not a baby," Bill protested. "I'm off to Hogwarts next year."

"I like the stories," said Charlie sulkily.

Percy saw a rat right over the ward line and stuck his hand out to grab it. He held the fat, gray rat to his chest, and showed it to his parents. "Look, a rat, can I keep it?"

"What would you want a nasty rat for, you baby," Bill said laughing.

"Bill! Only polite little boys go to Hogwarts. No, Percy, I don't think you should bring that creature into the house. It might have fleas."

"I'll help him clean it up," said Charlie. "Look, Mum, it's old and skinny and missing a toe."

"It won't hurt the boy to have a pet, Mollywobbles," said Arthur. "Might as well let the poor fellow live out his life in the warmth of the Burrow."

"Well, all right," Molly said. "But you had better take very good care of that animal, Percy. A pet is a privilege and a responsibility."

Percy clutched the rat to his chest and nodded solemnly. "I'll love him, Mum, I really will." And maybe he'll love me, he added silently. Little Percy often felt overlooked among his six children. Bill and Charlie and the twins were more boisterous; Ginny and Ronnie were littler and cuter.

"That's nice, dear," Molly said absently.

Peter Pettigrew sniffed at the cold fall air and twitched his nose. He thought momentarily about biting the boy and leaping to freedom, but then the gnomes might tackle him. Did garden gnomes eat rat like goblins? Best to not find out.

 

* * *

 

**Yule**

* * *

 

The Quartermaster knocked on the door frame of the Guard's break room. "All right, people, listen up," he growled. "Last patrol of the night, and then I expect you all to go fetch your kinfolk and head to my cottage for the annual McKinnon burning of the Yule log and hog roast. McCavity and Spinnet, you take minimum security. Renfrew and Bole, go tuck the blighters in the East Block in bed. Topper and McKinnon, make sure the potion addicts haven't hung themselves. Vane and Fleet, lock down the infirmary. Jordan, O'Neill, Head Guard MacDougal! The three of you have the honor of checking Maximum Security with me. Everyone knows they need a verbal response and a face to face from every bleeding prisoner, right?"

"Aye, sir," they chorused.

Len Jordan followed the others out of the door. Oh, joy, a close and personal encounter of the Dementor kind. What a jolly treat. He knew better than to complain though. The sooner they were done, the sooner he and his wife could tuck wee Lee into bed and wrap the last of the Yule gifts.

The Quartermaster banged his halberd in front of the iron gate leading to the Maximum Security wing and then shouted, "Dementors! To your chamber!" The Dementors retreated into the stone chamber at the far end, and as the last one floated in, runes over the door lit up, signaling that the Dementors were confined within their devil trap. He unlocked the door and pairs of guards went cell to cell, calling out each prisoner's name. A ragged chorus of "Present, sir," began.

Len stopped in front of Barty Crouch, Jr's cell, and snapped, "Convict Crouch." When no answer came from the huddled form in the corner, he tapped his Halberd on the bars. "Crouch! You waste my time, and you'll regret it!" The bundle didn't stir. "Assistance!" he shouted. Florence MacDougal joined him in front of the cell. "He's been rather sickly, lately," she said briskly. "I doubt he's having us on. I'll stand out here and you check him. Can't be too careful with the mad ones."

Len banged his halberd thrice on the ward plate and the cell door rattled open. He stepped inside and nudged the moth eaten blanket hard with his Halberd. Not even a whimper. Len bent down and rolled the body toward him. He saw the face, and nearly dropped his halberd in his hurry to back away.

"What's wrong?" Florence yanked him out of the cell. "Is he dead or not?"

"Well, whoever it is, is dead, all right," he said nearly hysterical. "That ain't Barty Crouch!"

"Who is it, then, man? Of course it's Barty Crouch!" Florence stomped into the cell and peered down at the bundle. She froze. "Damn. Go tell Jamie his party is off again this year."

"You recognize the body?"

"Yeah. It's Crouch's own mother."

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ao si: the fairies. Beltane is a time to appease them with offerings.  
> Bassa: Scottish slang for bastard
> 
> I've taken some liberties with paganism here. I'm not a pagan, and I'll be borrowing from various cultures, so I apologize if I get things wrong. I may have done it deliberately. It's fiction, folks.
> 
> It's always bothered me that Azkaban never discovered Barty Crouch's disappearance. Wouldn't the magic fail when Mrs. Crouch died? Presumably dementors aren't removing and processing the bodies of convicts.


	6. As the wheel turns: 1983

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another year rolls on by. Convicts usher it in and close it out.

**Imbolc**

The Lord Warden handed his wiggling son to Amna Patil, the nursemaid, and ushered the woman out of his library, shutting the door behind her. He waved his wand, activating the privacy ward and than sat at his desk and nodded to the people gathered in front of him.

"All right, let's start from the top," said the Quartermaster. "Working off the assumption that the elder Crouches engineered their son's liberation, can we pinpoint the point of time at which they did so?

Lord Warden steepled his fingers together. "Yes. They visited their son only once, this time last year. I thought it odd at the time, after Senior had been so insistent that his only son and heir should be thrown to the Dementors. However, Senior wrote that Mrs. Crouch had recently discovered her condition was incurable and that she wanted to say farewell to her only issue, so I gave permission."

"Do we know if she was telling the truth about dying?" asked Grindan. "Healer Spinnet?"

Healer Spinnet, the young chipper wife of Guard Spinnet, said, "Yes, Grindan. My examination of her remains revealed that the carbuncle on her throat was malignant. Her whole pancreas was riddled with tumors, and in my professional opinion, it's rather astonishing she held out this long if her healer had informed her that she was incurable a full year ago."

"Who let them in to see their son?" asked Grindan.

"Me," said the Quartermaster flatly. "I put Junior in magical suppression cuffs, manacled his arms behind his back and locked them in with him." He paused and then reluctantly added, "Didn't confiscate their wands, though, so I reckon we know how they managed it."

"What?" cried the others.

"Well, I figured the worst they could do was kill him or clean him up a bit. Since Senior was accompanied by his wife, I figured he'd not kill her only child in cold blood, and since he was there, I figured she wouldn't dare provide any sort of comfort to the boy."

"That makes sense," Florence scowled and then admitted, "I'm not sure I would have done any differently. What did they look like when you went back to get them? Anything seem irregular?"

"Narcissa Malfoy had come over on the same boat to speak to me about her husband," Jamie said. "So I sent Len to escort the Crouches back to the reception when the time came."

"All right. Len? Same question?"

Len cleared his throat and pushed his silver shot black cornrows back. "Convict was still in his suppression cuffs and manacles."

"Did his parents seem normal to you?"

"Well, you know Senior. Tense. But he always acts like he's got a stick up his arse, so I'd say he seemed normal to me." He paused and continued haltingly, "Mrs. Crouch...you know...she seemed a bit unsteady and her eyes were glassy. If it had been anyone else, with anyone else...I'd have thought Imperius. But who would Imperio their sick wife?"

"Not Crouch Senior," said Vernon. "Man didn't even agree with Aurors using the Unspeakables."

"How about Junior? What his manner like?"

"Docile. No real expression really. Just sat on his sleeping pallet and stared right through me."

"Docile?" snarled Florence. "An already unstable young man spent hours locked in a confined space with the father he hated and his dying mother, and the fact he acted docile never alerted you to the fact something was seriously wrong? Have ye shit for brains, Jordan?"

"Shit for brains, Lenny boy has shit for brains," squawked the parrot. It hung upside down from the dusty chandelier, flapping its wings.

"Florence, let him be," said Jamie. He scrubbed at his face wearily. "The only thing predictable thing about Junior was how unpredictable he was. Boy was cracked, before he even stepped foot on the Island. His father must've known that, and I can see even Senior resorting to Imperius under such circumstances."

"Do we think Lady Malfoy had anything to do with this debacle?"

"Nah," said Jamie. "She only had her son and husband on her mind. Heard she'd been staying with her aunt, Walpurga Black, you know. Rumor has it Lucius is the only palatable protection she has from the lecherous advances of her father in law, and I reckon she's desperate for Lucius' sentence to come to an end." 

"So, what did we do to follow up on the Crouch Seniors?" Grindan asked.

"I wrote Senior to inform him of his 'son's' passing and asked if there was a specific crematorium he wanted the remains sent to for last rites," said Vernon. "He wrote back and said as far as he was concerned, Junior was no son of his, and we shouldn't be thinking that we could get any money out of him. Just have the Dementors toss the corpse over the cliff, he suggested."

"Cold, even for Senior," said Grindan.

"Yes, so then I wrote back that I'd like to come and talk with his wife, because she had at least cared enough to visit the boy."

"Eh, clever, so then what did he say?" 

"At the Wizengamot session yesterday evening, he had Augusta Longbottom rake my Wizengamot proxy over the coals about how we were harassing his ill, bereaved wife, and driving her ever closer to her grave. And so close to Imbolc too." The parrot fluttered down to perch on his desk lamp and he absently offered it a biscuit. 

"Crouch isn't even a follower of the Old Ways," said Florence. "And Imbolc is a women's sabbath anyhow."

"Aye, but Madam Longbottom is a believer, and she belonged to the same coven as Mrs. Crouch. Went to school with her, you know," said Jamie.

"I didn't know, actually, but I don't see what difference it makes," said Florence. "So did Madam Longbottom claim to have seen her friend recently?"

"No," said Vernon. "Checked with various sources, and no one has seen hide or hair of the lady since last Yule."

"No one found that peculiar?" asked Grindan disbelievingly.

"No," said Jamie. The others stared at him until he elaborated, "Lots of folks dead or mourning their dead after the war. And Mrs. Crouch had the added shame of being a light witch, married to a blowhard that condemned their own son to hell on earth. Folks knew she was ill, and likely she doubted her welcome in her coven, as her own son had been caught torturing the Longbottom Heir into insanity. Barty himself was no social butterfly. Every colleague the man had ever offended was rubbing the fate of his son in his face," Jamie added wickedly, "And that was damn near every government employee. Maybe not Weasley, who is too easy going, and Fudge, who is too obsequious. But everyone else to be sure."

Florence snorted. "Couldn't happen to a better man if you ask me. He was a bit too quick to write his son off. Didn't even want it to go to trial."

"Well," said Healer Spinnet. "When we admitted Junior, his mind healer at Mungo's sent me a letter begging me to support transferring him to the Incurably Insane ward there. He said the boy had always been weak minded and he wasn't a danger to anything other than his father's pride. Since he had been caught red handed Crucio-ing a toddler, and the Longbottoms were rumored to be destined for that ward themselves, I declined. I suspect Junior might have ended up in that ward anyway even if You-Know-Who hadn't existed."

"Nah, not on Senior's watch," said Jamie. "He'd lock that boy up in his attic or cellar and pretend the boy never even existed. If he helped the boy out of here, and I believe he did, I suspect he's got him trussed up tighter than he'd be here, and under constant supervision. Maybe potioned to the gills on top of that. He'd not want his family business public, and he'd damn sure not give the boy even enough rope to hang himself."

"So, who shall I report this to?" Asked the Lord Warden. 

"No one," said Florence grimly.

"I must report it, Florence. A Death Eater escaped the Island on my watch," Vernon slammed a palm down on his desktop in frustration.

"No, son, Florence is right," said Jamie."If we report it to the Minister, it'll just get buried. If we report it to the Aurors, they'll descend on Crouch's home, and everyone inside will die. If we report it to Dumbledore, he'll humiliate us, Crouch, and Fudge in front of the whole damn Wizengamot."

"No one will believe us," added Florence. "It's Crouch, a staunch, by the book, light wizard. I wouldn't believe it myself if I hadn't seen the logs."

"And then Fudge and Crouch will make life very, very unpleasant for us," said Jordan. "Not to mention there will be a public panic. People are still scared."

"I understand," The Warden sighed heavily. He didn't like it. But he too thought it was unlikely that Junior was any sort of threat."Cremate the body, and send the paperwork to the ministry. As far as anyone else is concerned, young Barty died on Yule of complications related to Dementor exposure."

* * *

 

**Ostara**

"All right, me lads, assume your positions," Florence cried. "Marty, you're a warrior guarding your keep! You're the last person standing between this callow invader and the virtue of your lord's lady." 

Vernon snorted. He stood at one end of the small,  rarely used ballroom with a wide eyed Harry in his brawny arms. "Are you the lady whose virtue is at stake?"

"No! Grindan! Can ye take this seriously, please? Marty needs practice."

Marty was standing at the other end dubiously eyeing a grinning Grindan who was spinning his Halberd like a baton. "Do I like the lady in question enough to save her virtue?"

"Yes," said Grindan. "Does she have nice tits? I'd only risk my life for a decent set of knockers."

Florence growled, "Be serious! On the count of three..." The two men squared off, "one...two...three!" Grindan struck at Marty, and Marty blocked the thrust. The pole arms banged together. "Thrust, parry, thrust," screamed Florence. "Thrust! Marty! You're fighting for your life here! No time to be shy! Disengage!" The warning came too late and Grindan knocked Marty's Halberd out of his hands. Marty fell to the ground and Grindan pointed the spike at Marty's chest. 

"Your lady's virtue is mine, now, weakling! And her pert, delectable, arse!"

Marty sniggered and the other man helped him to his feet.

"All right, Marty, that was a bit better," said Florence. "Let's work on dueling, now."

"Without the Halberd?" Marty asked hopefully.

"Nay," said Vernon. "the whole point of this is to get you up to scratch with your Halberd. Ye can't carry your wand naked in the prison, man. It's not safe." Harry bounced in his arms and clapped his small hands. "Alberd," he giggled. "That's right, son, Halberd," Vernon set the boy on the ground as the other two men tipped their halberds upside down and unscrewed the metal caps on the butts. They each dropped their wand inside the shaft, replaced the caps, and resumed their fighting stances. Vernon scooped up the boy once again. 

This time, the duel lasted only a moment until Marty fell to a Stupefy. Florence groaned. "I just do not understand how such a good dueler cannae even manage a simple Protego." She tilted her own Halberd at his prone form and silently cast an Ennervate spell. 

He got to his feet and said, "I can barely feel my wand, Florence. The Halberd just feels clumsy to me."

"You've got to convince her you like her, Marty," said Grindan, "Stroke her a bit, tell she's real pretty."

Marty sputtered, "Stroke Florence? She'd ram the spike of this thing right up my behind."

"Not Florence. I said pretty, not scary," Grindan said. "Your Halberd." 

As Florence hexed Grindan, much provoked, the intricately carved and gilted doors banged open and in strolled a misshapen, scarred fellow. He was missing a chunk out of his nose, one forearm and two fingers on the other hand. "Many blessings of the goddess upon you all," he cried.

"Many blessings, Reserve Guard Kettleburn," said Vernon, surprised to see the man. They clasped hands and Silvanus Kettleburn chucked Harry under the chin. "How's you hail and hearty little heir today?"

"Enjoying the floor show," said Vernon, nodding towards Grindan, Marty, and Florence. Grindan now sported large donkey ears and Florence's skin had turned a vile shade of green. Marty had ducked behind the harpsichord. "You know little boys, blood thirsty little things."

Silvanus chortled. "All babies are, my Lord. It's one of the few things we share with our animal brethren. The spawn of Hagrid's great dirty spiders took a chunk  the size of Harry's fist out of me arse just last week."

"That must have been some baby spider," said Vernon weakly. "Is that why you're here, then? I wasn't expecting your report until the school year was done with." Kettleburn had a job as the Care of Magical Creatures at Hogwarts. He was nominally Vernon's liaison for the few Island children that chose to attend the school, but he really only had the job at all because it amused him. He enjoyed the kids, and it kept his wife from nagging about him too much about true retirement. He'd worked in the Dragon Preserves of Romania until a Horntail had snapped off his arm at the elbow.

"Nay," said Kettleburn. "Albus discourages the staff from celebrating Ostara on the grounds, see, and I figured if I had to leave anyway, I might as well come and bring my grandkids some Honeydukes."

"I've been meaning to talk to you, anyway, Silvanus."

"Eh?"

"I think it's time we made a few more inroads into Hogwarts."

"To be honest, man, I've been pondering our last discussion and I don't think I'm the fellow for that. I like the bairns, I'll support any of our own there...but I've just not got patience to dance with Albus Dumbledore any more I do already. I'm feeling my age."

"I thought you'd say that. So who do ye think would be better? The young ass or the leprechaun lass?" Vernon nodded towards his two closest friends.

Silvanus grinned evilly. "My, my, sir. How does one pick between two such fine choices? I'd hate to deprive either with the chance to hobnob with dear old Albus."

"Don't worry, the loser gets the Wizengamot Proxy. They'll get the consolation prize of Dumbledore: Supreme Mugwump edition."

* * *

**Beltane**

"All right," The Quartermaster said, "This is the final test of skill and nerve. Winner gets their pick of assignments."

Grindan and Florence faced off across a table on Fortescue's veranda. In front of each was the towering Beltane Bonfire Sundae Special. Three scoops scoops of chocolate ice cream, shaped like logs, topped with three scoops of pumpkin shaped, pumpkin flavored ice cream.  Espresso flavored Ice mice scurried around the bottom of the heavy cut glass boats, and on the very top a chocolate cookie scarecrow madly brushed away the circling frosting crows. The two Guards stared levelly at each other, spoons posed ready to do battle.

"First person to finish wins," continued Jamie. "Or the first person to vomit or give up, loses. On your mark, get set...Go!"

Ten minutes later, Florence dropped her spoon and said "Ha! Take that, Danny!"

Grindan dropped his spoon and slumped. He hadn't even got to the logs yet. "Dealing with the brats is almost worth avoiding the stomach ache you'll have tonight."

"You might want to go buy a stomach soother," the Quartermaster said. "Your first Wizengamot Meeting starts in three quarters of an hour, Florence."

The woman bolted in the direction of Slug and Jigger's. Jamie eyed his nephew and shook his head slowly.

"Oy! What's that look for? She's the pig!"

"I'm just pondering what I did to deserve to get stuck with you lot, that's all. In the old days, we Guards dueled until first blood hit the ground, instead of eating ice cream until the point of upchucking. "

At 8:15 PM, both men sat in the Public Stall of the Wizengamot and watched as Florence McDougal, of the Clan McDougal, get sworn in as the Azkaban Proxy. Florence, they knew, was plain spoken, and quick tempered. Yet so much depended on her performance in these chambers: the well being of future Islander children, Harry's continued safety, their Lord's reputation, and their own livelihoods. 

Albus Dumbledore smiled down at Florence, his eyes madly twinkling. "Does the Proxy of Azkaban have any new business she wishes to bring forth for discussion?" He clearly expected a negative response. 

"Aye," said Florence.

Whispers broke out across the chamber. He banged his gavel and called for order. "Well, then, by all means, my dear, you have the floor. I look forward to your youthful spirit livening us old farts up."

Grindan rolled his eyes. Despite the way she had her red curls draped loose around her white robed shoulders, Florence was the same age as Lord Malfoy, and at least within a decade of half the room. Jamie jabbed him hard with his elbow and then leaned in to mutter, "It's good if Dumbledore sees her as young. Means he'll assume she's a pawn rather than a knight." Grindan whispered back, "Is that why she's out there and not you?" He knew his uncle was the Lord Warden's spymaster. Jamie nodded and then gestured him to be silent.

Meanwhile, Florence had stood gracefully and held out her palms. "My learned brethren, I am so looking forward to learning from the combined wisdom of your years. To serve on a Wizengamot lead by such an august figure as Albus Dumbledore is truly a dream come true for me."

More like nightmare, Grindan thought.

She continued, "My Lord Warden has sent me before you today to discuss a matter very dear to my heart: the education and advancement of the Island youth. Our school is in desperate need of new potion labs and astronomy equipment, and, sad to say, an entirely new roof."

"I hope you're not hoping for monetary contribution," interrupted Lucius Malfoy. "You must be aware that the Island declines to pay their portion of the Hogwarts Tithe under the thin justification that the island is so remote that it needs money to fund its own school." Murmurs of agreement arose around the large room.

"Now, truly, My Lord would never dream of doing so, Lord Malfoy. He's a fair and progressive man; his idea is that we investigate all options."

"What options are you considering?" inquired Dumbledore. He was curious despite himself. Most unheard of for the Islander Proxy to bring up any new business, let alone anything related to Hogwarts. The Islander Academy students had the highest OWL scores of any school, although relatively few went on to take their NEWTs, and their actual curriculum was a jealously guarded secret.

"Some say that we should repair and restore our aging building," Florence folded her hand and looked demure. "My Lord says that perhaps it is time for a more dramatic change. He says that if Hogwarts is the premier school in all of the British Isles, then surely his heirs should attend to reap those benefits. In light of that, he wishes to gain a better understanding of Hogwarts' staff and curriculum and culture. He proposes that he appoints a special investigative liaison for a period of no longer than a score."

The murmurs rose into a dull roar. A Heir of the House of Warden! Attending Hogwarts! Unheard of, people muttered to one another.

Dumbledore banged his gavel. "And what," he asked in a hard voice, "does Hogwarts gain from such scrutiny from your upstart laird?"

Florence said, "Why, a tithe from the Island of Azkaban, of course. That is, if your school is truly as worthy as you claim."

Pandemonium broke out. Dumbledore fell back into his chair, shaken. The Island simply had never paid a tithe to Hogwarts. Ever. It was one of the reasons relatively few Islander children attended Hogwarts. It was the principal reason that nearly none of those attended openly as Islanders. There was bad blood between Mainlanders and Islanders; for Islanders to imply that Hogwarts was in any way a superior school was unheard of. He narrowed his eyes and leaned forward. To be the Headmaster that gained the Island Tithe! All that extra funding! Perhaps even to be the man credited with the modernization of the Island's village!

From the Public Stall, Quartermaster McKinnon looked on, amused. Greed always overtook ambitious men in the end. Albus Dumbledore was ripe for the picking.  _Well done, lass._

* * *

 

**Midsummer**

A tawny post owl swooped through the Burrow's kitchen window and dropped the letter it carried into Bill Weasley's porridge.

_William Weasley_

_Second Largest Bedroom, second floor Landing_

_The Burrow_

Bill tore open the envelope and shrieked, "Mum! Dad! My Hogwarts Letter is here."

His Mum bustled into the kitchen carrying Ginny, and kissed him on the cheek. "Oh Billy, my little man. What a wonderful surprise!"

"What's so surprising about it?" asked Charlie. "It's all anyone has been able to talk about, all year long." He shoved the congealing eggs around his plate, annoyed.

"Now, Charlie, don't be like that," Molly said. "You'll get to go next year!"

Arthur came into the kitchen and said, "Well, William, I think we should celebrate. What would you like to do today?"

"May we go to the Midsummer Festival and see the Oak King leap over the fire?" Bill asked eagerly.

"Absolutely not," said Molly. She thought for the moment. "Tell you what though, your father will take you to buy your wand and then to sit in on the Wizengamot meeting tonight. Just imagine! You'll be the first of your class to see Albus Dumbledore."

Her husband and children looked at her as if she had gone off her head. She didn't notice; she shooed Bill and Arthur through the floo with their roast beef sandwiches.

Arthur caught Bill as the boy fell out of the floo. "You bend your knees, son, rather than step forward." He noticed the downcast expression on Bill's face and he said, "Here, hand me that sandwich of yours, and let me show you a magic trick." Bill rolled his eyes but complied. Arthur pulled out his own sandwich and said "Now you see them.." He dropkicked the two bags into the nearby rubbish bin "...Now you don't!"

Bill laughed. "Mum will really let you have it," he said seriously. 

Arthur smiled. "Not if neither of us tells her," and father and son set out for the rare afternoon treat of roaming about the alley without the rest of the family. Bill got his wand, rode a goblin cart into the depths of Gringotts, where he saw the security dragon (none of his siblings would ever believe the story), ate fish and chips and even got to pick whatever he wanted off Fortescue's menu. Yet the most memorable bit was yet to come. 

He sat in the Wizengamot Public Stalls and looked around at the crowd, swinging his legs. Mostly old, boring people. His father began to quietly point out a few of the members seated down below: "There's Albus, of course, and there's Amelia Bone's, and oh, there's Daniel Greengrass. Your mum can't stand him, but just between you and me, he's quite the Goblin dice player. There's Madam Longbottom, her grandson will be in Ronnie's year..."

"Dad," Bill interrupted, staring wide eyed across the hall. 

"Yes, son?" Arthur asked patiently.

"Who's that lady there? The one with the eyepatch and red hair like ours?"

"That's Florence McDougal, the proxy for Azkaban."

"Whoa." The boy stared, captivated, as Florence McDougal sat straight in her chair, like a queen. She wore a dragon hide vest over her snug fitting gray robes, and had her hair pulled back in a long tail, revealing dangling fang earrings. Bill decided right then and there that he was going to be like her some day. She was quite possibly the coolest adult he'd ever seen. Who knew adults could even be cool?

Florence looked up into the crowd and glimpsed the gawking child next to Arthur Weasley. She resisted the urge to slide down out of her seat; she'd spilled coffee down the front of her Wizengamot finery, and a sudden gust of wind had messed up her ladylike hairdo. As a result, she had had to spell her hair straight and tie it back. She was wearing the only other things she had with her: her Azkaban underrobe and battle armor. The child probably thought she was a lunatic!

* * *

**Lammas**

Grindan stepped out of Leaky Cauldron's floo. It took a few minutes for his eyes to adjust in the dim light, and by that time, a tall, stern looking woman had materialized in front of him.

"You must be Professor McGonaghall," She held out her hand. He took it and he kissed the air above it, just to see what she'd do. She visibly bristled. Oh, a feisty thing then.

"Ye must be Guard Grindan McKinnon," she said in a Scottish burr even thicker than his Uncle's.

"Yes, Minerva- May I call you Minerva?" he barreled on before she could say no. "Minerva-" her eye seemed to be developing a twitch. "-May I ask why you chose this...charming pub...as the spot for our little rendezvous?"

She replied frostily, "Guard McKinnon, I chose this place because in your letter, you said you wished to trace the path of a child headed to Hogwarts from the very beginning. This," she gestured at their surroundings, "is the portal through which many wide eyed eleven year olds enter our world."

"Ah, I see. The only way to go is up from  here, I suppose! Very clever!"

"Aye," Minerva cursed Albus Dumbledore silently once again. He'd made it clear that she'd best give this young upstart any information he requested. She narrowed her eyes. Well, he couldn't force her to be polite. She'd return rudeness for rudeness, slight for slight.

"Tell me, any relation to Marlene McKinnon?"

The man stiffened, "Aye, my cousin."

"I wondered. You look a bit like her, but that sweet child was far more respectful and obliging."

His face lost all color, and his lips trembled. She suddenly realized she was standing in front not a foppish school boy, but a dangerous, intelligent man.  

She said, "I...I'm sorry. I didn't mean-"

He snarled, "Didn't mean to use the name of my puir dead cousin to cow me? Didnae mean to shove a blade into my belly, up through to my heart?" His raised voice began to attract a crowd. He noticed and took a deep shaky breath, visibly reining himself in. "Maybe," he hissed, "if my kinswoman had been a bit less obliging, your lot wouldnae have gotten her murdered."

She flinched, and reached out to him. He backed away in disgust, and said "Madam, I would far rather be celebrating Lammas with my loved ones than be subjected to your presence any longer. Good day to you!"

She was left standing in the center of the Leaky, tears burning in her eyes. A figure detached himself from the far end of the bar and guided her to a booth in the corner. 

She looked into the grave face of her husband, "I screwed up," she whispered. "Albus said that I should mention Marlene as an opening gambit, to remind him that she served the Order, but all it did was wound him."

"I did warn you," Elphingstone said. "Marlene might've been the Quartermaster of Azkaban's biological child, but the nephew is his heir in every way that counts. Jamie McKinnon is a sly bastard who wouldn't piss on Albus if he was on fire, and I'd bet that boy of his is cut from the same cloth. Rather soft on the surface, those McKinnons, but cold iron competent at the core. If you insist on helping Albus with his stupid little games, you need to understand that Albus reads people so badly at times that he often creates the problems that he then takes upon himself to solve 'for the greater good'."

She nodded. "All right," she said. "We'll do it your way."

* * *

**Mabon**

Minerva stared out the window over the Forbidden Forest, paying little mind to the quarreling happening around her. In just a few hours, she'd be out there, among the old growth trees, celebrating Mabon in earnest. It wouldn't be just her easygoing husband, or Pomona, or Filius this time. The Islanders took the Old Ways seriously, Elphingstone had told her. Grindan McKinnon would be watching to see if she was showing the Green Man proper respect, and he'd judge her accordingly. 

"Minerva," snapped Pomona. Minerva returned her attention to the Staff Meeting. "Yes, Pomona?"

"Would you kindly explain Snape that he can't simply force a second year to drink a ruined potion? It's not yet October, and we've had three overnight infirmary stays already!"

"Snape, why would ye force a child to drink a ruined potion?"

"I did not force the brats to do any such thing. I criticized their pitiful efforts, they said the potion was fine, and so I said I'll pass you if you prove that. They're the ones who drank the potion!"

"Because," Filius said, clearly struggling to control his fraying temper, "They felt intimidated by you, Severus, and did not believe they had any choice."

"Mr. Bole's stomach got a hole in it," said Poppy, waving a sheaf of papers. "Miss Branley's heartbeat escalated to dangerous levels. Mr. Parsons lost all control of his bladder for three days straight."

"Snape, ye'll stop that at once, or you'll be out the door the next time it happens."

"Enough!" said Albus. "Only I can hire and fire staff members, Minerva, and you'd do well to remember that."

The heads of houses, excluding Snape, exchanged glances. That wasn't strictly true. But Albus had the tendency to get his way.

"Now," Albus said in a grandfatherly tone, "Minerva, would you care to report on your progress with little Marlene's cousin."

"He's hard to get to know," she said. "Elphingstone offered to have him over tonight. I'll let you know how it goes."

Albus opened his eyes wide. "Elphingstone is forgoing his usual superstitious revelry in favor of helping you forward your own career? How wonderful."

Minerva murmured something noncommital. Had Albus always been this sort of petty, disrespectful man? If so, how had she missed it?

* * *

**Samhain**

Florence watched as Harry scampered across the library floor, right on the heels of Len's son and the Spinnet girl. It was a drizzly Samhain night on Azkaban, and Vernon had opened up the mansion to various Islanders who wanted to stay dry and celebrate somewhere that wasn't a pub. She knew that Vernon was uncertain about holding any kind of celebration on the death date of the Potters, but Amna Patil had convinced him that it would be disrespectful to their spirits if Harry did not grow up celebrating their lives. No one on there island had known the Potters well, though, so after a dramatic retelling of James' public (and somewhat humiliating) courtship of Lily, the Islanders split off into clusters. Harry splashed in the water next to older children bobbing for apples, elderly folks reminisced about long gone love ones, and Florence's cousin Mary read Tarot cards, her little daughter Morag clinging to her skirt. Various Guards stood around socializing, or in some cases, nodding as their spouses were socializing. Vernon and Grindan and Marty were near the punchbowl, defending the cauldron cakes from the parrot; Jamie was engaged in a serious conversation with Kettleburn. Florence had a bad feeling about the topic given that every time she got close enough to eavesdrop, it sounded like they were talking about all the different sorts of ladies' gloves one could own, and surely that had to be a clever privacy scrambler.

She sighed. She'd scored a prime seat in one of the leather wing back chairs in front of the fireplace, but she felt restless. Her duties at the Wizengamot had opened her eyes to how badly Reconstruction had gone. There were too many empty seats, and too many greedy blighters jockeying for power in the vacuum left behind. The traditional and neutral families tread carefully for fear that anyone would decry perfectly reasonable motions on the basis that they had produced the likes of Sirius Black and You-Know-Who. When she'd been a teenager, one could mention any of the Old Sabbats and no one would blink; if one did so now, someone inevitably would invoke Dumbledore's name. Albus Dumbledore wanted progress, and for the Muggleborns to embrace their world, people said. Would you stand in the way of Progress? We need fresh blood to survive, people whispered. It was odd; to her great-grandparents' generation, "fresh blood" meant they encouraged their children to handfast with the likes of Seafolk, dryads, hags, and goblins. To the current generation, fresh blood meant New Blood, or rather old blood, as many Muggleborns were thought to be the descendants of squibs.

She shook her head. Well, no use obsessing over it. Perhaps a walk would do her good. She stood and made her way to Jamie. Kettleburn and Jamie cut off their conversation before she could get too close.

"So subtle, gentlemen."

"No idea what you are talking about, m'Lady." Silvanus mock bowed and wandered away towards the refreshment table. 

Jamie asked, "Did you have a purpose in coming to speak to me? Or was this simply another attempt to eavesdrop?"

"I need to stretch my legs, and I thought I'd do one of your surprise prison checks." Since the discovery of Mrs. Crouch, Jamie had instigated walk throughs of the Prison at random intervals, especially of the Maximum Security wing.

"All right. Did ye want company?"

She shook her head.

"Take that damned parrot with you, then. With it gone, I can get a good game of poker going with the lads."

High above the village, on the far end of the Island, Sirius Black was not having a good Samhain. His cousin and the Lestranges had mercifully left him alone today; over the past year, Sirius had come to understand that Rabastan was loyal to his brother, Rodolphus loved Bellatrix, and Bellatrix was beset by the Black Madness, a term for a common genetic disorder in their family. It was not brought on by her own actions or mental state; it caused both. Her Magic was essentially ripping out of her on a tether, and then coming home to flay her alive. He never thought he'd feel kinship for his cousin, but she believed his innocence, and he had begun to doubt that he was the only child misused by the older generations. She'd been seen as expendable, and therefore was unprotected by her parents, because like Barty Junior, it was only a matter of time before her mind broke irreparably. The realization that he'd not been alone as he'd thought had left him with disjointed dreams of his baby brother calling his name the night he'd fled from Grimmuald Place one final time. To what nightmares had he left Regulus vulnerable?

No, Sirius Black was not having a good night. This was the night his best friends had died, and this was the night his little godson had lost everyone. Padfoot curled up in the middle of his cell and shook with fear and grief. He was so focused inwards that he barely noticed when the Dementors retreated and the screaming of the prisoners started back up. He only looked up when he heard a loud bark. At the door of his cell stood a red haired woman, not much older than him. Her right eye was obscured by a black eye patch, and she wore a Guard cloak over green lace dress robes. The barking sound had come from the enormous blue and yellow macaw perched on the curved hook of her Halberd. They stared at one another for a moment; Sirius blinked, and the bird, broad, and blade had vanished as if they'd never been there at all. Great. Now he was losing his mind.

Florence secured Maximum Security and then hiked up her skirts and ran as quickly as she could the darkened records office. The bird escaped before she shut the door. Uncaring, she yanked open the cabinet door and retrieved Convict Black's file. She'd have the head of the Guard who managed to overlook Black's Animagus abilities. There was only a writ of detainment preceding trial. No trial transcript? Where was the writ of incarceration? Black's school records? Health records? Correspondence from family members? It wasn't here! None of it was here! She began to systematically empty the entire cabinet, stacking files in neat lines around her.

"Florence?" Jamie stood at the door, Vernon behind him with the parrot perched on one shoulder. "Florence, is there something amiss?"

She knocked over one pile on her haste to get to the next and tried to save the papers from cascading into a heap.

"Head Guard McDougal, tell me what is going on," Vernon gripped her arms and stilled her frantic movement.

"We have a very, very big problem," she said shakily. "Worse than Crouch."

* * *

**Yule**

The mood was grim at The Nobody Inn. Every Island adult citizen was crammed into the expanded ground floor. Old Riley had packed away the Yule decorations without complaint once he'd been told that he'd host the gathering. For once, not even the barkeep had been drinking. After the discovery Florence had made Samhain Eve, the energy of the Lord Warden's vassals had been solely focused on the matter at hand.

"Merry Yule, everyone." The Quartermaster sat on top of the bar, his expression grim. "This is not an inquiry. We've already done that. This is a presentation of pertinent facts so that you may come to an educated decision. Florence will start."

Florence said, "On Samhain eve, I discovered that Convict Black is not only an unregistered Animagus, he is also an unregistered Convict. This means that we have no trial transcript, no writ of incarceration, and no St. Mungo's evaluation- in short, we have no paper trail that explains why Sirius Black is enjoying the company of the Dementors as we speak."

Jamie said, "Our first inclination was to believe that the paperwork had somehow gotten lost in the shuffle, and so I sent a request to the DMLE for paper work relating to any Death Eater that had been incarcerated and tried between October of '81, and December of '83. I encountered some resistance, but that disappeared after I told Bones that this was a way to confirm that a recent restructuring of our filing system had not mistakenly duplicated or erased any of our files. She seemed rather sympathetic." The tremor of amusement ran through the crowd. The Ministry spent more time and energy on finding new ways to file records than on the actual records, Director Bones had once been heard to say in disgust. "In regards to every single prisoner, our files matched those of the Ministry. In other words, every single Death Eater that we incarcerated in those years had all of the paperwork that Convict Black lacked." The crowd was silent. This was not news to anyone. 

Vernon said, "I wrote to Lord Arcturus Black and he wrote back that while he did not believe the Convict would welcome his interference, he would not do anything to further harm his grandson, and he believes that if he himself had brought it up in Wizengamot, it could result in a Kiss Order. Florence informs me that this is an accurate judgement of the current Wizengamot. He suggested that we prevail upon Mungo's for an evaluation." Mungo's could demand a trial transcript, and were duty bound to advocate for their patients, prisoner or not.

"Healer Spinnet?"

"When I asked the Mind Healers if they would be willing to perform a routine Legilimency and mental health examination, they were willing right up until they saw the name. Then I was stonewalled." She tried to smile, but it was clear she was upset. "They told me that Albus Dumbledore himself had refused to perform Mind Magic on Convict Black, and if it was too dangerous for him, it was too dangerous for anyone else."

"I wrote to Dumbledore," said Vernon, "and he said that perhaps it was for the best that we let sleeping dogs lie." He paused and added heavily, "I cannae prove it but I believe he knew the man was an Animagus." The crowd began to stir. "I responded to that letter, saying that various inmates in the Maximum Security wing were taunting Sirius Black for the fact that he'd been framed for the Potters' death. Dumbledore wrote me back and quite firmly said that even if Black hadn't betrayed the Potters, he had still murdered thirteen Muggles in cold blood. I responded that surely, for the Potters' son's sake, he would want to know the full truth."

"And did that work?" asked one of the crowd. 

"No. He wrote that the young Boy-Who-Lived had been entrusted to a loving family, and any information regarding the fate his godfather would be unwelcome, and perhaps detrimental to his emotional and physical well being." 

Someone in the back of the crowd guffawed. "Bet you were surprised to find out you weren't interested in the very thing you were inquiring about."

Vernon grinned, "Indeed. I was also stunned to be told that the same toddler that enjoys eating mud possessed a delicate constitution." Sniggers rose up from around the room. It was well known that little Harry loved any activity that involved goop, slime, or dirt.

"Last, Theodore Tonks?"

An old grizzled Guard stood up and said, "I asked my boy to do some digging at the Ministry, supposedly in behalf of my curious granddaughter. Had the benefit of being true, too- Dora had been asking him about some mean parent at her primary who refused to let her own daughter play with Dora, because 'blood will out'. Well, after she asked her da what that meant, he explained about Andi's cousin and sister. Dora wanted to know why people would act like that, so he told her that he'd find out the full story."

"Please tell us what happened then."

"The day after he asked around at the Ministry, someone tried to crack their wards. They narrowly escaped, and Albus fucking Dumbledore had the nerve to tell Teddy that it was his fault, as he sat with his shaken family, for stirring up old grievances like that. The truth can be a dangerous thing, he said." The crowd erupted in outrage.

"Silence!" Vernon roared. The crowd went silent again. "Ted Tonks the Younger was born an Islander, and he came to me to request a full interrogation of the Convict Black because he believed that ignorance was a threat to Dora's life. We took Convict Black into the interview rooms, dosed him with truth serum, and discovered that not only did he not betray the Potters, he also did not, in fact, murder any Muggles at all." The Islanders stared at their lord in dumb horror. Surely not. An innocent man in with the dementors? It could not be!

"So to sum it up," Jamie said. "We've a Ministry that believes a fellow was tried and found guilty because 'everyone' said so, a Hospital that believes what a politician tells them without verification, a Supreme Mugwump playing god, and the grandchild of a Guard attacked because the questions she was asking were a threat to persons unknown."

 "Our course is clear," said Vernon."We can choose between what is right and what is easy. The Island has not pardoned a Ministry Criminal in eighty-seven years. Such a move would put us in direct conflict with the Ministry, and Sirius Black would most likely be confined within shores of Azkaban for life. He would be one of us. He would be among your daughters, and sons and yourselves. Such a decision requires a unanimous vote from my vassals."

"Need you really ask?" called Guard Spinnet. 

"Is that a motion to bring the matter to vote, Guard?"

"Aye, Sir."

"For those against the pardon," said Jamie. "Light your wands and say "nay."

Not a single person moved.

"For those for Pardoning Sirius Black and granting him full rights as an Islander, light you wands and say "aye."

"AYE!" The choir of voices rattled the rafters, and the room lit up, merry and bright.

 

   

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dunno where the bit about the Tonks even came from. I may need to adjust the tags again if little Nymphadora keeps demanding to be in the plot.


	7. Imbolc 1984

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Blacks may be bent, but they are not broken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The opinions of one's parents are not always the opinions of one's grandparents, and simply because your mother disapproves of your husband does not mean everyone else agrees with her. I enjoy Black family focused stories because there are a lot of possibilities therein. The only things we know about the Blacks come from Sirius, who is likely an unreliable narrator given his relationship with his parents. Don't worry, Sirius will be back shortly. 1984 is the year of the House of Black! 
> 
> I did some fanfic magic hand waving. I'm operating on the assumption that Marius (and squibs like him), aren't really thrown out. They can't inherit entailed property, and they don't have wand rights--they become a sort of permanent ward. If that's the case, Marius would have been best off being far, far, away from the likes of Walpurga. So this Marius is a dapper scholar who lives and works in Italy. One doesn't need magic to write about history, magical theory, etc.
> 
> Constance Chatterley is the name of the protagonist in Lady Chatterley's Lover. It was published in 1928, banned by multiple countries for explicit sexuality, naughty words, and a scandalous affair, which means you can bet that every respectable, well bred person of the era owned a copy.

**Imbolc**

 

Andromeda Tonks put one hand on her daughter’s shoulder to guide her through the hushed, opulent surroundings of the Neptune. The old fashioned Wizarding restaurant had entirely too many breakable, priceless Roman treasures lining the walls to let Nymphadora to careen through like a knobby kneed newborn foal. She knew her husband and daughter were more than a little nervous about this lunch date with the elder Blacks. Ted had made Nymphadora change her dress robes five times; his daughter had tried repeatedly to convince him to hire a Goblin bodyguard to protect him. Just him, thought Andromeda ruefully—not her! Ted after all had not been the one to agree to this luncheon. Perhaps she deserved her daughter’s displeasure. But when the letter from Grandfather Pollux had came, Andromeda in the midst of a good long sulk over Ted’s lies, for she was sure that he was not telling the truth in regards to the nearly fatal attack on their house in November, and so she had written back immediately that she’d love a chance to catch up with her kin.

 

The maitre D’ had stopped to hold a door open, and gestured for them to enter. Andromeda wasn’t sure if she should be relieved or terrified that the Blacks had booked a private room. Her Grandfather and great uncle stood as the three entered. Cassiopeia glided around the table and the two woman air kissed one another’s cheeks. Nymphadora curtsied to Cassiopeia and the older woman huffed. “Young lady, should you be unable to curtsey properly, simply stand tall and act as if everyone else should bow to you.”

 

Nymphadora blinked at her, befuddled. She’d expected a severe, frightening hag, but this tall, elegant woman wore vivid sapphire silk robes and a necklace that looked like it had come straight from Ali Baba’s treasure chest. She opened her mouth to stutter an apology, but the meek words morphed into something entirely different: “I love your necklace! Was it a gift from a wealthy sheikh who ravished you in his desert caravan?”

 

Behind the woman, three older men broke into near hysterical laughter. Her mother whirled to face her father and hissed angrily, “What have I told you about not buying her inappropriate books?”

 

“Eh, not to buy her inappropriate books? And I didn’t, Andi, I bought the _Sheikh’s Cursed Jewels_ for myself because I simply had to know if Lady Clare would come to a bad end. One can’t read only the first two books of a trilogy!She must have found the novel in my desk.”

 

“You’ll come to a bad end if she ever “finds” such a book, anywhere, ever, again.” Then she realized they had an avid audience, and turned to face her elders. “I’m so, so sorry, madam and m’sieurs. Perhaps this was not such a wise idea—“

 

“Nonsense,” Pollux cut her off. “It’s Cassie’s fault anyhow. Marius did tell her that necklace made her look like a jilted, decrepit concubine.”

 

“Marius is only jealous that I’ve managed to overshadow that tacky Medusa tie tack of his, Polly,” Cassiopeia snapped. The she looked down at Nymphadora and said, “Well! Finally! A daughter of the Family with proper appreciation of fashion!”

 

Andromeda suddenly realized who else stood before them, and said uncertainly, “Marius!”

 

The jolly, barrel-chested squib bustled around the table and swept her up in a warm embrace. “Andi!” He cried.“So wonderful to see you! And this must be Ted,” He grabbed Ted and lifted him up off the ground in a bear hug. “So sorry I couldn’t make it to the wedding—I was working on a time sensitive excavation in Magical Pompeii! And you must be their little Nymph!” He bent down and smiled at the young girl. “Now tell me, the truth now, my feelings shan’t be hurt. Which do you think is more amazing—my Medusa,” He tapped the ruby studded, golden female head on his tie, and all the hair snakes began to writhe, “or your auntie’s ridiculous new accoutrement?”

 

“Well,” said the young girl very earnestly, “I can’t wear a tie pin, so I feel that I must choose take Auntie’s side in hopes that she will one day allow me to try on her necklace.”

 

“Spoken like a true Black,” said Arcturus, amused. “Manipulative little magpies from the nursery onwards!”

 

“So,” said Marius, “Are you saying that if you were able to wear the Lady Medusa, you’d side with me?”

 

“Marius, you Italian Lothario! Don’t steal my new conquest away from me! You can have Ted.”

 

“I’m afraid Ted is already spoken for, Cass,” said Marius merrily. He undid his tie tack and carefully pinned it to the child’s robes. “There! A lady for my lady!”

 

Nymphadora’s face broke out in a wide, gleeful smile. “Oh thank you, Uncle Marius!”

 

“If you’re quite finished destroying my hopes and dreams for the youngest generation, shall we get on with it?” Cassiopeia flung herself one of the plush purple armchairs encircling the table. “Where is that waiter? I ordered that martini ages ago!”

 

Nymphadora followed Marius to the other side of the table and he graciously seated her in a chair between him and her grandfather, Pollux.The girl’s eyes were wide as Pollux transfigured her water glass into a camelwhich trotted across the table to fetch the bread basket and drag it to her plate with its teeth. She giggled and took a roll.

 

Andromeda decided that some battles weren’t worth fighting, and she herself would have hexed her sisters to sit in the same spot as her daughter at that age. She chose a chair opposite of her daughter and her husband sat beside her. He threaded his fingers through hers out of sight under the table cloth, and she squeezed his hand. Even if she suspected him of lying to her blatantly, she loved this man.

 

“So,” Andromeda began, “I was quite surprised to receive your invitation. You know, given that Mother disowned me for, how did she put it—oh, yes, allowing a filthy Mudblood to plunder my maidenhead.”

 

Arcturus snorted. “Was your daughter-in-law a co-collaborator on your little hobby, Polly?”

 

“She said that? Andromeda, I do apologize. And I am offended that you think I would ever pen the words “plunder my maidenhead”, Arcturus. That is so crass, so common.”

 

Andromeda blinked. “What are you talking about?”

 

Arcturus said, his shoulders shaking. “Why, Andromeda, are you saying that you did not know your grandfather wrote the very novels that your daughter and husband consume right under your nose?”

 

Andromeda felt faint. Her grandfather wrote the top selling novel of the year? The one that Witch Weekly described as a “titillating romp under the desert moon?” Her grandfather—Pollux Black—Wardmaster awarded multiple medals for sheer magical skill—wrote bodice rippers under the nome de plume Constance Chatterley?

 

Next to her, Ted cleared his throat, and Andromeda felt a sudden surge of dread. Oh, no. He wouldn’t, would he? Please let him say something sensible and unrelated, she prayed silently. Please, Brigid, bring your hammer down on my bloody husband’s poor impulse control.

 

It was not to be, sadly. Ted asked excitedly, “Pollux! Are you planning a follow up series about Clare’s roguish nephew Cyrus? May I proofread the manuscript for you? Please?”

 

“Oh, I would love that, Ted!” Pollux sighed when Arcturus pointedly cleared his throat. “I think the Family Head would like to get on with business, but remind me to give you my Owl Post address afterwards.”

 

“Right,” said Arcturus tersely. “It would be nice if this did not take all afternoon. First, Andromeda, you were never disowned. Your mother was a silly bint; I, as Lord Black, am the only one able to disown you, and as far as I’m concerned, you had every right to marry for love.Mr. Tonks is a respected barrister, and powerful wizard, regardless of his ancestors or his dubious taste in reading material.” He took a sip of water. “I had, until now, let you be given that your parents, and Walpurga posed a decided danger to the wellbeing of your husband and heiress. But now your parents are dead from dragon pox, Orion is dead from Walpurga poisoning him, and Walpurga is dead from from hanging herself after I confined her to Girmmuald Place.”

 

“So sad,” sighed Aunt Cassiopeia. “I had nearly chosen the best slow acting horrifically painful poison to end their worthless existences when they had the utter nerve to shuffle off this mortal coil without my assistance.”

 

“Please don’t even joke about such a thing, dear sister,” said Pollux, “little pitchers have big ears.”

 

Andromeda looked from face to face. Was this some sort of trap?

 

“This is not a trap, child,” said Arcturus. “I received correspondence a while back that may have been related to the attack on your wards, and I realized the time had come to show a united front. Family is Family.”

 

“Could you explain, please?” Asked Ted, when she remained silent, lost in thought. Oh, how she wanted to believe them!

 

“Certainly. In November, I received a letter from the Lord Warden of Azkaban Hold. He informed me that perhaps I should consider bringing the case of my heir, Sirius Black, to the attention of the Wizengamot.”

 

“To what end?” Asked Andromeda sharply.

 

“He wrote that he had been disturbed to find that he had no records of Sirius receiving a trial. I checked with Pollux, and Pollux told me that he had assumed that the trial had occurred during one of the sessions I had sat in his place. I had assumed the opposite, and that he simply hadn’t wanted to bring up our grandson.”

 

Andromeda gaped at Arcturus and then turned to look at her husband. “Ted, is—is this why you were asking those questions?”

 

“Orginally, no.” Ted paused as a waiter poured him a glass of wine. He waited for the waiter to serve the entire table and then depart before continuing, “Nymphadora—“

 

“Daddy, I hate that name—“

 

“Sorry, sweetie. Anyway, our beautiful and wise angel asked me why that Skeeter shrew had said herchurlish, hideous, daughter was not allowed to play with ours because ‘blood will out’—

 

Cassie hissed and hurled her empty martini glass over her shoulder. Pollux waved his wand and the camel gained an elaborate saddle.

 

“—and so I explained that you sister and cousin had hurt some people and gone to prison for it. She wanted to know why your relatives would do such a thing, and I said I didn’t have the full story. Well, I started asking around at the ministry and people became evasive and hostile. You know me—I was curious, and pushed harder. People usually love to gossip about Fall of the House of Black. I finally started to make some headway with a few Aurors, and then the attack happened."

 

Andromeda put her face in her hands and then looked across at Arcturus. “So you think, what, there was a cover up of some sort?”

 

“I’m not sure,” said Lord Black. “I think Warden wrote to the Ministry prior to his letter to me, and someone was already worried. When that someone learned that I had also received correspondence from Warden, they jumped to the conclusion that Ted was inquiring on my behalf.”

 

“The irony being,” said Cassie, glowering at Arcturus, “Is that these morons had already written back to the Warden saying that they were too yellow bellied to stand up for their own grandson.”

 

Pollux growled, “For the last time, Cassie! Some of us didn’t flee in shame here to go carousing around the French Riviera. If I bring the boy up, they might conveniently remember they hadn’t ordered the Kiss for him!”

 

“Enough!” Snapped Marius. “Pollux knows the current political climate better than us, Cass. We need to regroup and change tactics if we are to come out ahead of our enemies.”

“And you want our help?” Asked Ted.

 

“We do not want you to risk yourselves further, Ted. We want the three of you to move into the Black Manse for your protection. No one need know where you dwell, if you should choose to stay out of our efforts to rebuild the House of Black.” Arcuturus paused. “Sirius may not be innocent. Even if he is, he has every right to turn his back on us if we manage to free him. We do not deserve to ask for forgiveness. Not from you, not any of your generation, after we allowed our own children to misuse you all.”

 

Marius and Cass sat there silently, eyes downcast. Pollux nodded in agreement, his eyes damp.

 

Nymphadora said, “Mum, you’ve always said that family is the cornerstone of Wizarding culture, that your blood shall stand with you when no one else will. No one is standing with cousin Sirius or your sister.”

 

Pollux began to weep softly. “After all that has happened, you still can teach such a thing to my great-grandchild?” Nymphadora offered him the camel and he absently conjured a small Arabic rider, that had black hair, grey eyes, and a roguish smile eerily resembling Sirius’ own.

 

Andromeda reached for Ted’s hand once again, and she pulled it up to rest in hers on top of the table in plain sight. She said, “This day is Imbolc, a day for healing. Let us heal our rift for the sake of our children. May Brigid bring down her hammer and forge the Black Family anew. May she smite our enemies and bring comfort to our foresaken.” She picked up her wine glass and held it aloft. “To Brigid, Goddess of the Forge.”

 

Everyone, including the youngest of their gathering, lifted their drinks and echoed, “To Brigid!”


	8. Ostara-1984

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sirius sees a glimmer of light, and Marius shines a spotlight on a truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn that Nymphadora. She demanded more story time, and this time she brought reinforcements: her vicious attack camels. 
> 
> I blame this on Kreacher. I mean, Elmer the Camel. I mean, who ever came up with the "Dear Order" series. Which you should read, right now, if you have no idea who Elmer is.
> 
> I don't even know, folks. Sirius is going to be a might bit shocked when he reconnects with his family. Or will he be? Only the Camels know.
> 
> (Wellcome Collection is a real place, a Medical museum in London with a magic of its own sort.)

**Ostara**

 

Sirius stared vacantly at the wall of the infirmary. Healer Spinnet—she said he could call her Annie—sat beside his narrow bed filling out paperwork.

She put her pen down and said, “Do you want to talk?”

“What about?”

“Anything, Mr. Black. At this point, I will discuss anything that gets you to talk: quidditch, Muggle football, sharks, monkeys, my tits, your mother’s tits—“

He said, horrified, “If I agree to talk to you, will you promise to never mention my mother or her tits again?”

Annie giggled. “Oh, so I’ve finally found your Achille’s heel. All right; talk to me, and I will never speak of your mother, or her not-so-sexy parts again.”

Sirius shuddered. “Thank you.” He sat up and looked at her. “The trouble is that I just—don’t understand what is going on. One minute, I’m in with the Dementors, and the next minute I’ve been told I’ve received a pardon from the Lord Warden. Why?”

“I thought the Quartermaster explained this to you?” She frowned. “I know the man is busy with his little intelligence gathering jaunts, but really, your welfare is more important.”

“No, he did.” And hadn’t that been something. Jamie McKinnon had come in, pissed, and Sirius had been sure the man was going to finally give him a beat down. He’d found himself cowering in the far corner while the red headed Guard from Samhain had beaned McKinnon with a bed pan for frightening him. “I don’t understand why the Lord Warden gave me a pardon, or what happens now. I can’t leave the Island, after all. Where do I go? I don’t live in the prison, do I?”

“Goddess, no!” exclaimed Annie. “D’you think me and my husband and bairns lived here?”

“No…but I can’t leave the Island like you.”

“Mr. Black, there’s a Village on this Island. That’s where I live, and that’s where you may choose to live after you’ve recovered fully. You’re only in here because they want to make sure that you don’t need round the clock supervision.”

“I thought I was pardoned because they discovered I was not a mass murderer? Do they think I’ll suddenly become one?” McKinnon’s anger had turned out to be one part directed inward and three parts directed towards the Ministry. Sirius had been stunned to realize that the anger was on his behalf.

“Mr. Black—

“Please stop calling me that. It reminds me of Convict Black. Just—call me Sirius, please.”

“Sirius,” she said gently, “This is a suicide watch. Dementor exposure can do terrible things to people, and on the same day you were told that someone believed you were innocent, you were informed that you would never again see Hogwarts, or Diagon Alley, or your childhood home—“

“Believe me, I am ecstatic to never see that hellhole again.” He scratched his head. “I don’t think I’m suicidal—i just feel like I’ll never be happy again.”

“That would be what we’re worried about, Sirius. We want you to be happy; it is due in part to our own negligence that you are not.”

 _We harmed you_ , Jamie McKinnon had said, with a touch of hysteria. _We exposed an innocent man to the Dementors for months on end. I cannae express the extent of the sorrow that comes with that knowledge. It weighs heavily on every Islander’s conscience._

“Will—can—what’s waiting for me, in this village?”

Annie’s eyes welled up and she blinked back her tears. This was the most progress anyone had made with Sirius Black. He’d been nearly catatonic when he’d come in; she hadn’t even been sure she could get him to feed himself, let alone show an interest in his future.

“Life, Sirius, life.” _Rebirth_ , she thought. _Renewal. Oh, Goddess, may your dawn cause this man to burgeon and bloom into one of our strong Island lads._

* * *

 

Meanwhile, at the Black Manse, somewhere in the Yorkshire Moors... 

Marius Black had donned his deerstalker cap (figuratively, as Cassie had burnt the literal hat years ago) and had taken to shadowing Ted and Nymphadora. The little family had moved in the previous month, and life had changed at the Manse for the better. The closed wings of the massive stone house had been given a good airing; after breakfast every morning, Nymphadora and Arcturus set out to explore another section and discuss the relevant family history. Andromeda left after lunch every day to work as a curator at the Wellcome Collection of Magical Medical Marvels.

Upon learning about Andi's job, Melania, Arcturus' wife, had archly asked when, exactly, the little girl was supposed to devote time to her lessons if she was dragged to and fro by a nostalgic old fool during the only hours her mother was present. The sharp faced woman had been taken aback when Andromeda had absently replied, "Oh, Ted deals with that in the afternoon after he comes home." The Matriarch had observed the afternoon instruction closely for a week and then she had cornered Marius in his study after dinner one night. She brought her embroidery with her, and had settled herself under his favorite lamp. After forty-five minutes of straining his eyes to read Etruscan runes, he tossed his research aside and asked her bluntly what she required of him.

She had said, "Nymphadora is quite well read for a child." Marius had made a noncommittal response. He did in fact agree with her assessment; his great-great niece may have been clumsy, and a bit tactless, but he'd come across her curled up in the library, conjugating Latin verbs in front of Arcturus' corgi, Brutus, and one morning she had delighted Pollux by showing a firm grasp of Gamp's Laws of Transfiguration. No one else had been much impressed given that it had been in relation to her growing caravan of camels, which now trekked fifty strong through the wilds of the Main House. She could read The Three Musketeers in the original French, and calculate her allowance change, interest included, down to the last Knut, and she showed a surprising amount of talent on the harpsichord in the old Music Room. (Irma had been half convinced of demonic possession. Great Uncle Procyon's Harpsichord did not even like Arcturus, and bit most players upon contact.) But to Marius, the little girl's affectionate nature and gumption were the most precious traits she possessed. She made Arcturus smile, and Pollux laugh, and she even got Cassie to visit on a regular basis. 

Melania had continued pointedly, "I have been observing her lessons with her father."

"Oh?" Marius had wondered if she'd get to the point any time soon. If this was some sort of critique of young Ted, he'd "accidentally" leave her current embroidery piece out for Brutus. The Squib liked Ted; the fellow was clearly adored by little Nymphadora, and showed a keen interest in Etruscan jewelry.

"Today, he was instructing her on how to appropriately greet a Goblin. In Gobbleydygook." 

"Well, My Lord Black always says that one should never piss off those that handle one's money," Marius enjoyed playing the subservient Squib in front of Melania; she knew he was anything but that, and it irritated her to extremes when he bowed and scraped in front of people he disliked. It irritated her even further when he used less than genteel language in front of ladies. Not that Melania was any sort of retiring wallflower.

"Marius," she had said wearily, "I am attempting to discuss something of great importance with you."

"If it's some sort of tosh about how Ted is teaching his daughter unladylike skills, you know where you can shove it." 

"No. I am thrilled Nymphadora has had such an excellent education thus far. Marius, I took Andromeda with me to Gringotts yesterday, and she did not know even the basics. Apparently, Cygnus had never allowed her mother to tutor her in such important matters such as financial management and interspecies diplomacy!"

Marius had rolled his eyes and said, "My dear madam, surely it cannot come as a shock to you that my darling nephew was an abject fool." Seriously, Cygnus had been an interbred, cowardly bigot, who had been clever enough to realize that one mustn't educate one's daughters to become smart enough to poison him, and so he didn't educate them at anything more dangerous than flower arranging.

"That is not my point, Marius. I had assumed that Andromeda instructed her husband on a proper witchling's education. One cannot instruct upon something that one doesn't  even know! Your sister believes the child is a prodigy. Nymphadora is no such thing. She is a clever child of an even cleverer man. He claims to be New Blood; he cannot possibly be that. So who is Ted Tonks?"

"Why do you not ask him yourself instead of bedeviling me?" He had demanded.

"Because I am no fool, Marius. If that man did not want his family to move here, they would not be here. If he thought us a danger to his little daughter, Andromeda would have left her home for that first luncheon. If I offend him now, we will lose the joy those three have brought into this old place. People like you, Marius. You can ask him questions that the rest of us must not." She had risen, and patted him on his shoulder. "All I am asking is for you to be yourself, cousin." He had sat there for hours after she had padded out of the room, staring at the opposite wall, research forgotten.

For the next few weeks, he invented the thinnest of excuses to spend time with Ted and his daughter.  He trailed after them as they walked through the old chapel, looking at names of long dead Blacks engraved on the white marble floor. He sat with them in the conservatory, as the camels trekked through the ferns and Nymphadora rattled off the potion properties of the various flowers. He eventually began to introduce them to his favorite nooks of the house. Nymphadora had loved the indoor onsen Aunt Miko had ordered to be built in the basement; Tonks had been overcome with excitement by the armory. Marius had been startled when the man had picked up a halberd and began parrying with the animated  armor; Pollux had refused to believe him about Tonks' skillful maneuvering until Tonks had offered to demonstrate after dinner one night. Marius noticed that the man left out the more skilled maneuvers during the demonstration, but had remained quiet, reflecting, as the others had praised the young man and demanded to know where he'd learned his skills. Ted had laughingly replied that he'd joined a reenactment group one summer and picked up a few bits and bobs of knowledge. Marius had dropped to the back of the group on the way to the library for ice-cream; he'd met the Matriarch's knowing gaze and had nodded in acknowledgment. Who, indeed, was Ted Tonks?

Finally, the day before Ostara, Nymphadora had asked Marius an awkward question about whether he resented the others for their Magic. Cassie had nearly ripped into the child, but she bit her tongue at Pollux's castigating look. Both siblings knew that Marius did not care to be treated like a child. The Squib had asked the girl what she thought a Squib was, and she had replied "Daddy said that a Squib has intrinsic Magic that they cannot channel through a wand. I asked him if wands were the only way one could touch Magic and he said that I did so when I morphed. I asked if you could morph, and he said probably not."

"What do you mean by Morphing?" Marius had asked carefully. When Nymphadora's hair and eyes began rapidly changing colors, Cassiopeia had dropped her martini into Pollux' lap, and Melania fainted. There had never, not as far as any of them knew, been a Metamorphmagus in the bloodline. Yet here were Ted and Andromeda not so much as blinking at their child's ability. Their ten year old girl apparently had such fine control over her abilities that none of them had noticed up until then. 

Marius had smiled at her and told her that pink hair was sure to be all the rage among her classmates. Then he said that no, he could not Morph. Why did she wish to know?

"Because," she said, her eyes shifting to Marius' own grey, "Daddy said the other way you could touch magic was through the Sabbats. But he said we would have to go to elsewhere to celebrate tomorrow, because he didn't know if you liked to touch Magic at all."

And that brought them to Ostara.

The Elders had been quarreling about the topic behind the scenes since the Tonks had moved in. Pollux had argued that they should allow his granddaughter and her family time to settle; everyone had assumed Tonks was at best, only vaguely familiar with major holidays such as Yule. Pollux had urged the others to show first the marvels of magic; Irma had snippily responded that the Old Ways were Magic, but eventually caved. There was time, after all. After Nymphadora's innocent query, the entire household had flung themselves into preparations. A child who wanted to celebrate the Sabbat! A Muggleborn man who had raised a scion in their house with the Old Ways!

Marius knew enough was enough. Melania was quite right, except about her hesitance to speak with Ted Tonks. The man believed in letting his child speak freely; he would resent the elders if they did not model the same behavior for the girl. While the others gallivanted about the front lawn with hares, Ostara eggs, and camels, he beckoned Ted inside to the drawing room to offer him tea and cookies.

 The fellow, perching on the divan across from Marius, sipped his tea and Marius said, "Nymphadora seems to be enjoying herself."

"Well, you know, how can any child be unhappy with a legion of camels and a Grand Master in Charms at her beck and call?" 

"She brings great joy into this house on this Ostara."

"And the House of Black brings great joy to her by honoring the Goddess."

"Damn it, man, I'm trying to compliment you." Marius' favorite cookie, a jammy dodger, tasted like ash on his tongue. He was failing miserably at this effort to engage the younger man in a serious conversation. Perhaps the Goddess had ripped out his glib tongue entirely to humble him. He had, after all, never gone to meet the man his grand-niece chose to marry. He had never held baby Nymphadora in his arms, asking for Ostara to bless the child.

"Marius," said Ted gently. "Why don't you tell me what you really want to say?"

"Because," Marius said, taking a deep, shuddering breath, "I've missed an entire decade of your daughter's life. I want so badly to speak frankly with you, as I consider you kin. But I haven't the right, and I am not the only one who will fade away into oblivion should you turn your back in offense."

Ted said. "Uncle Marius, you may have noticed my daughter has the worst lack of filter. She certainly didn't get that from the Blacks. We Tonks are not known for our tact. Say whatever is you want to say, and feel better for it."

The knot between Marius' shoulders loosened. He said, "You know Andi loves you, and Polly thinks you’re the cat’s pajamas. But you can’t fool me, son—you’re no New Blood. Muggles don’t treat pole arms like they’re live weapons, no Muggleborn I’ve ever met treats a Squib like a Squib, and that little girl of yours knows more about the Old Ways than Dumbledore ever learned. Cassie thinks she’s a Prodigy; I think she’s a smart lass who is a credit to her clever boots papa. What say you?"

  
Ted said, “ for me to even entertain such a wild theory...you simply must tell me first how a Muggleborn treats a squib.”  
  
“Ah, so there’s something the clever boots doesn’t know!”  
  
“Well, I’m a barrister, sir—if there is one thing I know how to do, ‘tis yield to an expert.”  
  
Marius clapped his hands together, delighted. “That right there, son, is where you made the mistake. To a Muggleborn, no Squib can be an expert. We are surely lost little lambs, starving in the foreign muggle world, if we are not, of course, bitter and depressed about our inability to perform magic here. Retards, you know—burdens on the state, a Muggle in a foreign land.”  
  
Ted snorted, “You’d not starve as long as there was a child or lass about that you could charm into sneaking you biscuits.” He looked faintly annoyed. “More to magic than wand waving; squibs touch Mother magic through the rites, and squibs can brew potions, read runes, and grow magical plants. Bloody Muggleborns.”  
  
Marius laughed sharply. “Oh yes—you’re no son of Muggles. So?”  
  
Ted shrugged. “You caught me but good. I never meant to deceive Andi, you know. When we were on school, I reckoned the proper Black heiress was slumming, and it amused me to think that her parents believed she was running around with a Mudblood. Knew I wasn’t an acceptable match, regardless.” He blew out a breath. “Then we graduated, and she kept coming around. I took her to meet me da; I thought she’d refuse to eat fish and chips and be appalled by his off color humor. She charmed the old codger, and got into a squabble about Real Ale with ‘im. Next thing I know, they’ve made arrangements to drink their way through London’s finest watering holes. He slapped me on the back and said she reminded him of his Ma, and let me tell you, there is no higher praise. Don’t you let that lass off your hook, he said.”  
  
“Is your da a squib or wizard?”  
  
“Wizard. No squibs I know of, at least not in my lifetime. But a lot of us Tonks are Hedgewitches—for wanting a wand, let alone to go to Hogwarts, I’m the odd one out.”  
  
Marius nodded knowingly. “An salt of the earth sort of fellow, not one for the books, is your father?”  
  
“Oh, aye. Just a lot of nonsense to him, book learning.”  
  
“Andi speaks highly of him. So magic never came up?”  
  
“No. Magic is just part of life to my parents, like childbirth and death. I told her they were Wiccans and living a hard scrabble existence up north. Which by her standards, they do. Tonks don’t waste magic on washing laundry and cooking food and turning perfectly serviceable water glasses into camels. It’s an offense to the Goddess, you see.”  
  
“What do they think of little Nymph?”  
  
“Well, after raising me, nothing would surprise them. Besides, Andi assumes that the Morph comes from her side—“  
  
Marius drew up his eyebrows in confusion, “Not that I know of.”  
  
“Aye, thought so. Well, the reason Tonks are often hedge witches is that we’re all born Morphing.” His eyes turned amber and his hair shifted to Ravenclaw blue.  
  
Marius chortled. “You’re full of surprises.” Marius wasn't often surprised. But, then, he'd never met a Metamorphmagus who could wield a wand. A body gift such as that one usually consumed all of the individual's intrinsic magic.  It explained the man's manner towards the Squib, for Squibs were not the only Magic folk who couldn't wield a wand.  
  
Ted grinned and his hair and eyes reverted. “Well, it wasn’t a surprise I ever thought to spring on Andi. Even magic folk don’t like it when you tell them that you have no real idea what you looked like when you popped out of your mum’s womb. And it’s not like I saw Nymph coming, you know. Never in a million years. We celebrated Ostara that next spring, and Andi returned from a family dinner near hysterical. She’d told them she was pregnant; they told her that the spawn would be given to me if she didn’t want them to drown it. I realized my future was looking straight at me; I took her out the next day and bought a little house, invited ma and da down for tea. That was that. I was chuffed—relieved to tell you the truth—when Nymphadora had both Black and Tonks magic. Dunno what Andi would have done if her little girl couldn’t attend Hogwarts.”  
  
“I would have loved her regardless. She is ours, and you are mine.”  
  
Marius and Ted startled. Andi stepped into the room, and came toward them, followed by Arcturus, Pollux and Nymphadora. The little girl’s eyes were wide and confused. “Da?” She asked.  
  
“Daughter.” He opened up his arms and beckoned. She dived into them, burying her face into his shoulder. He squeezed her roughly, and then stood to face his wife, shoulders back and gaze level. “I do not know how much you heard—“  
  
“From Mudblood onwards.” She folded her arms. “You know I dislike that word intensely.”  
  
“Aye. Look, you’ve the right to be angry. I lied. I’ve lied to you for a very long time. Just tell me I can salvage our family, Andi—scream, hex, cry, whatever you’d like—as long as you don’t walk away from me and Nymph.”  
  
Andi’s face crumpled up. “You _moron_ ,” she said, her voice shaking. She ran to him and he caught her, grinning. Nymph squeezed herself between her parents and held on for dear life.  
  
Arcturus coughed awkwardly. “Well. Perhaps we’ll leave you to it—“  
  
Pollux scoffed. “If you’re afraid of human emotion, Arcturus, you may of course depart. Marius and I might eat some biscuits and get a bit soggy over Young Love’s Flame.”  
  
Andi drew back, giggling. “Oh hush, you old terror. And if this ends up in one of your books, I’ll—I’ll—“  
  
“ Never darken my door again?” Asked Pollux.  
  
“Eviscerate him with a dull spoon?” Asked Arcturus hopefully.  
  
Andi snorted. “No. I’ll give an advance copy to Ted’s Nan for Yule, and the worthy woman will insist on feeding you until you burst.”  
  
Ted laughed. “She would too. So, you really are fine with this?”  
  
“Not fine, Ted. I wish you’d said something ages ago. I hate that you were worried what I’d say about your family or Morphing or the idea our child might be a hedge witch. I chose you. I will always choose you. I do want to know something, though—“  
  
“Anything!”  
  
“I know you weren’t telling the truth about the attack. You didn’t go asking just because Nymphadora wanted to know about my family. You’d ruffle her hair and just make jokes about Skeeter’s appearance. And you would protect us until your dying breath, but you did not do anything that I could see afterwards. I won’t be angry if you contacted these old sods behind my back. I just want to know.”  
  
  
Ted took a deep breath. “You think—okay, I think we’d best sit down.” The others arranged themselves around the tea service.  
  
“Your grandfather writing you was just a happy coincidence. I had nothing to do with it, and it never occurred to me that you’d welcome an attempt at reconciliation. Not that I’m not thrilled that happened. But the truth is much different. I grew up on Azkaban; I am a loyal vassal of the 16th Lord Warden.”  
  
“You attended Hogwarts, though,” said Pollux. “Not the Island school?”  
  
“I wanted to be a barrister, even at the tender age of 11. I needed to network more than I needed to learn. I had no intention of serving as a Guard like my old man. My parents knew I was determined, and they petitioned the Lord to register me for Hogwarts.”  
  
He shrugged. “This was a few years before the man and his wife went down with the Queen Mary. Azkaban was prosperous and more interested in investments and business than politics. The Lord Warden said I’d be an asset; I could forgo the ten years’ service in return if I agreed to work for a firm he chose. I jumped at the chance.”  
  
“ I wondered how you secured your internship,” murmured Pollux. “Old Farringold is not the sort to seek out young partners.”  
  
“Yes. Well, Ferry is married to an Islander lass, and he knew me from the summers he spent visiting her family. He once said that he enjoys flinging me at the fools who draw their conclusions based on societal tittle tattle rather than their own impressions of me. Apparently I flummox them. Me, a simple fisherman’s son. Who knew?”  
  
The others laughed.  
  
“So you went to Hogwarts. But everyone—even the teachers—assumed you were Muggleborn!”  
  
“Not everyone. There are a few Islander children at Hogwarts every year. We don’t advertise it; we don’t care for the Headmaster’s interest in our people. Besides, if you tell a Mainlander that you’re from Azkaban, they either treat you like you’re a Dementor yourself or all they want to talk about is the prison. Constantly. It gets old fast.” He snagged a jammy dodger and washed it down with a gulp of tea. “Anyways, last Samhain, a Guard was making the rounds and discovered that your cousin was an Animagus.”  
  
“What’s an animagus?” Asked Nymphadora.  
  
“An impressive bit of magic,” said Pollux. “It means he can shift wand-less into an animal.”  
  
“Unregistered, I assume?”  
  
“Aye. Well. Everyone thought that someone had bolluxed it up, actually. When the Head Guard pulled the file to find out who should suffer the Lord’s displeasure, it was discovered we had no paper work for Sirius Black. Nothing. This is Britain—I do not need to tell my own countrymen how disturbing we found that fact. So, they opened an investigation and hit roadblocks everywhere they turned. Da asked me to discreetly inquire around the Ministry. I was not lying about my curiosity. I could tell something was up, and I like a good puzzle. I’m sorry, Andi. It really never occurred to me that I was putting us at risk.”  
  
“I understand.”  
  
“Does Azkaban know who attacked you?” Arcturus demanded.  
  
“No, sir. It could have come from Mungo’s or the Ministry or Hogwarts. Death Eaters or Dumbledore supporters.We can’t prove anything, but no one came out smelling of roses.”  
  
“Rot is even wider spread than we thought, then,” Arcturus grunted. “Wonderful.”  
  
“Yes. At any rate, after Dumbledore came to see us at Mungo’s—“  
  
“He did?” Asked Marius sharply. “For what purpose.”  
  
Andromeda snapped, “To make us feel guilty about nearly getting ourselves killed. Said it was best to forget all about Sirius, or else Nymph might grow up like little Harry Potter.”  
  
“That—that—“  
  
“Quite.”  
  
“Do you take that as a threat or a warning?”  
  
“A warning,” said Andromeda.  
  
“Threat,” said Ted. “You didn’t see the letters he wrote to the Warden. Dunno what crawled up his arse and died, but he’s either lost all touch with reality, or is afraid, for whatever reason, of the chance Sirius could be innocent. So I went to the Warden and petitioned for him to interrogate Sirius; I wanted to know what secret the life price my only child was judged to be worth. Sirius is my wife’s cousin; I am an Island citizen. I’ve the right to demand for a inquest on kin.”  
  
Andromeda swallowed. She was afraid to ask, but needed to know. “Well?”  
  
“Innocent on all counts,”  
  
Marius whooped and Pollux and Arcturus slumped against each other in relief.  
  
“Oh, wonderful,” breathed Andi.  
  
“How can we help Sirius?”  
  
“By doing what you've been planning. And if you can bear to make the first move towards closing another rift, you might consider visiting him and Bellatrix in prison. You can get kinfolk passes.”  
  
“Bellatrix isn’t innocent, is she?”  
  
“No, Andi. But people don’t live long lives in Maximum Security, and word is that she’s ailing. If you want closure, you’d best reach out now before, while there’s still time.”  
  
With the sober reminder that life was fleeting, the Blacks felt a resurgence of determination. It was time to rejoin the world. 


	9. The Black Family Saga; or, how to destroy a whole family in one generation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ted is curious, Arcturus is truthful, and Irma gives Pollux an ingenious (terrible) idea.

**Black Manse Library, not long after Ostara, 1984**

 

Ted sat hunched over a large, leather bound volume frowning. Vol 16 of the Black Family History (1500-1600 AD) was little improvement over the previous fifteen volumes. Dull, dry, and nearly impossible to read.

Arcturus strolled into the library. He tossed his outer robe onto the rack beside the door and sat down across from Ted in a matching wingback red leather chair. He steepled his fingers and said, “I am pleased that you are showing such an interest in our family history, but Pollux and Nymphadora have been waiting for you for over three hours to join them for a jaunt to a bookstore. Stirrings of discontent are evident; I feel that you should know that I have observed an amassing in camels. I believe they may be mounting an offensive.”

Ted sighed and removed his glasses, tossing them on top of the volume. He rubbed his eyes tiredly. “Right. Thanks for the warning, sir. This is taking me rather longer than I expected; I suppose I might as well go put them out of their misery.”

“Ted. You have said yourself that all barristers know to consult an expert. I am the Lord Black, the resident expert on our family history. Why not consult me, hm?”

Ted looked at the older man and weighed his options. Finally, he said “I suppose I don’t want to stir up bad memories. It would be enormously helpful if I had a bit of background, though.”

“Regardless of how pear shaped the last several decades went, I am still proud of this Family, Ted. I would not be attempting to restore it if it held no good memories. Ask whatever you wish to know.”

“Right. Well, I started thinking about how Andromeda enjoys exploring this estate as much as Nymphadora and I do; I had initially thought she’d be bored, much like I would be if she dragged me about the Island, exclaiming over every nook and cranny. Then I realized that for all of the stories you and the others tell of this place, few involve Andi and almost none involve Sirius. This is the Black Family Seat.Why was it all shut up when we arrived? How long had it been shut up? I know there is a town house, but surely there must be other properties if no one lived here. If someone wanted to understand my family, they would go into the cottage I grew up and sort through all of physical memories. Understanding Andi’s generation seems integral to helping Sirius, but I’m lacking so many of the pieces to the puzzle.”

“Ah. Well, as Pollux would say—would you like the dull rigamarole of the official story, or all of the juicy gossip? Those books are the former.”

Ted raised a brow and rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “The juicy gossip, always.”

“That, Ted, is why you fit in so well here. No Black trusts the official history. So: I suppose the best place to start would be the fact that I did not approve of my son marrying Walpurga, Pollux’s daughter.”

“Was it the incest or something else that put you off?”

“Well, the incestuous aspect was certainly a bit—unsavory. But my objection mostly stemmed from the fact that I didn’t believe it to be a match of love or even affection. Walpurga was obsessed with the idea of marrying Orion; she had rejected all possible suitors on the basis that they weren’t Orion. I know Sirius and the girls assumed that it was because Walpurga thought Blacks were far superior. But Pollux and I both agree that it had more to do with the fact that Walpurga was an unattractive, magically average girl. Her suitors were at best second or third sons of minor families. Her status as Pollux’s daughter, and my closeness to Pollux gave her some pull among her peers, and she was quite accustomed to bossing my son about. Once she married, she would be removed somewhat from the family scene, and once he married, she’d be second fiddle to his wife and heirs.”

“So marrying Orion was her way of maintaining, and potentially elevating, her status?”

“Yes. And given her appalling attitude towards nonhumans and foreigners, you understand, it was the only path open to her.”

“So, you disapproved, yet it happened anyway.”

“Well, Orion cared only for Ministry politics. He had little interest in marriage, and I think he saw marrying Walpurga as a way to get both his mother and Walpurga to leave him be. As a last ditch effort to stop the marriage, I told him that his mother would never agree to Walpurga living in the Manse, and that I would gift them Grimmauld Place. The townhouse, you understand, is a rather ugly example of Georgian architecture in a neighborhood in severe decline. I thought no one in their right mind would choose to live there.”

“But that didn’t deter him.”

“No. In fact, I misjudged the situation entirely; Melania, Pollux, and Irma castigated me for that. Orion preferred London over the Moors. His associates were all in London. Wally had chafed her entire life under her parents’ close supervision. No doubt she would have been thrilled to be the lady of the Manse, but she was well aware that the wife of the heir would be micromanaged by every Black older than her. You understand: Wally’s status as a Black daughter only impressed outsiders. Within the Family, she was at the very bottom of the pecking order. Even Andromeda, her own niece, who was all of three, had more influence on Pollux and Irma than Wally did.”

“So Grimmauld was a chance to set up her own household, and actually be the lady of the house.”

“Precisely.” Arcturus looked regretful. “I did not realize for years, until it was far too late, the true extent of the damage. She often demanded that we visit them because her social calendar was fartoo full too leave London. She never allowed her sons out of her sight; what I mistook for affection and parental concern was simply brutal control and the fear of losing sway over her own domain.”

“Was it a similar case with Andi’s family?”

“In some ways. Pollux, you will have noticed, is not the domestic sort, and his personality is…robust. He will carry out his duties but only to the minimum that I require. Most of his energy was focused on keeping Cygnus on the straight and narrow. Cygnus had Pollux’s disdain for polite society, but none of Pollux’s morals or brains.”

“He sounds worse than Walpurga.” 

“He was a petty, shallow man, who married a petty, shallow wife. If I gave Orion too much leeway, Pollux gave Cygnus too little.The boy wanted nothing more than to be respected like Pollux. He didn’t see the sheer amount of brains and work Pollux put into his efforts or the fact that Pollux does, to all expectations to the contrary, adore Irma. Cygnus saw the finished products; an Order of Merlin Wardmaster and an accomplished society wife. He never saw those two thirteen year olds, defiant and united against the world. Dorea was that first child. Nymphadora reminds us all greatly of her; the elders pushed Pollux and Irma to try again, and produce an even more brilliant son. Cygnus and Walpurga were inadequate, yes, but Pollux and Irma are haunted by the question of why. Was it because they were born that way? Or was it because their parents were throughly different, far more preoccupied with their own lives, which resulted in children ruined by their own gross negligence?”

“A terrible thing to wonder.”

“Indeed.” He went on, “Pollux and Irma spent a great deal of time abroad. They had rooms here, as did their children, but other than perhaps Dorea, the family really only came back for formal events. The two younger children either spent time abroad, or in later years, with school chums, to avoid the close supervision of their elders. They had no affection for this place, and when Cygnus married, he demanded that his father in law gift them a townhouse of their own. Their daughters only spent as much time as they did with us because their own parents saw them as disposable pawns, only good for marrying to advance their own standing. Older relations died one by one. Our numbers slowly dwindled down to just Melania and I; this is a large, drafty place that is rather expensive to heat, so we closed down most of it.”

Arcturus rubbed his chin, thinking. “Also, Pollux, as you have seen, tends to steamroll people; he’d drop in on Cygnus and abscond with the granddaughters, and then come to coax us and Cassiopeia to join them in Italy, to visit Marius, or France, to shop, or Austria, to ski.”

“I did wonder how Andi was so well travelled outside of Britain,” Ted said. “She can be very blasé about the prospect of Venice, but absolutely chomping at the bit to take Nymphadora to Cornwall.”

“We should perhaps consider a family holiday to Italy, then, if you haven’t gone.”

“Oh, I have, just not with the girls. My Islander cousins particularly enjoy Rome.”

“And Nymphadora?”

“No. I would love to take her.”

“We must go sometime; to stay chained here is as bad as never visiting here. I am determined that we become more balanced.”

“A worthy goal, Lord Black.”

“Ted, please, call me Arcturus, or at very least uncle. If you must address me at all as Lord Black, take a page out of Marius’ book, and use that form in front of the people you want to underestimate you.”

Pollux and Marius  came tumbling through the door.

“I want to tell him!” Said Marius.

“No, you brat, it was entirely my idea!”

“Ah, but I am more charming than you.”

“Age and treachery before callow youth, Marius.”

Arcturus briefly shut his eyes and heaved a small sigh. “You see what I have to put up with, Ted? Immature school boys. You bring a certain level of sanity into my life that I had previously been sorely missing.”

Ted steepled his own fingers and leaned back into his chair. “I quite understand what you mean, Uncle. Such frivolity is so unbecoming of men their age.”

Arcturus, Marius and Pollux broke into laughter. Ted joined in after a moment. After they had subsided, Pollux said, “Excellent, great minds think alike!”

Arcturus said, “Dear Merlin, I’ll check myself into St. Mungo’s the day anyone thinks quite like you, Pollux.”

“No, actually, Pollux really has had an ingenious idea,” said Marius. “I know, I was shocked too.”

“If it is about those thrice damned ungulates of yours, Pollux, I do not want to hear it.”

“The camels are Nymph’s, and no. This is about how we’re going to take back our place in the Wizarding World.”

“Do tell.”

“Well, Pollux and Cassiopeia were discussing how we needed to regain our footing in the public eyes.”

“And then Marius pointed out that to do so, we needed people to underestimate us. A distraction, if you will.”

“And then Irma said that the best distraction was something that was innocuous and shocking at the same time.”

“Andromeda then piped up and said that was Ted’s and my specialty.” Marius grinned and splayed his fingers over his heart. “I was so touched; my grandniece mentioned her beloved husband and I in the same breath, surely that means I have achieved the title of world’s greatest uncle.”

“Still far inferior to world’s greatest grandfather, but we digress.”

“Yes,” said Arcturus, “May we hear Pollux’s ingenious idea?”

“Build up is necessary, dear cousin. It really is that brilliant,” proclaimed Pollux.

“Or terrible.”

“Devious.”

“Hilarious.”

Arcturus’s and Ted’s heads swiveled back and forth between the two ebullient brothers.

“What is it?” They exclaimed.

Irma spoke from the doorway. “The appointment of a Wizengamot Proxy has always sent a particular message to the world. Much like the seating arrangements at a luncheon, or the choice of colors at a ball.”

“That is true,” agreed Arcturus. “The Wizengamot is in many ways the theater of the British Wizarding World.”

“So,” said Pollux. “What message would you, Lord Black, be sending if you appointed your Squib cousin?”

“The scion denounced by her parents?” Continued Irma.

“Her husband, a respected barrister, and alleged son of a Muggle fisherman?” Finished Marius gleefully.

Ted and Arcturus gaped at the others and then slowly turned to look at one another.

“Chaos,” they breathed as one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I enjoy Pureblood Culture fics, but not the Lord!Harry fics. However, somewhere on the internet, there’s a great Ginny!Bashing fic in which the Weasleys and Albus force Harry to marry Ginny. The author understands that status comes from little things—boring social gatherings and how people perceive you. It’s not the big things, like providing a heir, or outshining everyone. Ginny utterly destroys herself by being a ignorant teenaged girl who thinks houses matter out of Hogwarts, influence is bought, and having no concept of appropriate behavior. In short, just like herself. A lot of authors exaggerate Ron, Hermione and Ginny’s negative characteristics to the point of absurdity, and that’s not how evil or failure usually work. Any of them—including Harry—could have disappeared into oblivion after Hogwarts. Any of them could have ended up screwing up their careers, lives, children’s lives—just by being themselves.
> 
> Anyway: My theory is that the elder Blacks died of despair in canon. Of 5 children in Sirius’s generation; 2 were notorious terrorists, one was MIA (also, a suspected traitor or terrorist), one had essentially given them the finger, and the last, Narcissa, had a baby of her own, a husband on trial, and her own future to save. Even if she wanted to, she would not have been able to afford to support any of her blood family. The elder Blacks would not be accepted in polite society, they were probably jeered or spat at on the streets, and they had no one left to pass the torch to. I don’t feel sorry for them, exactly…but no one, not even the Black Family, sets out to raise their kids to be mass murderers, traitors, or idiots.


End file.
